f\ 


y?s 


PAINTED  VEILS 


PAINTED  VEILS 


BY 


JAMES  HUNEKER 


La  Verite  toute  nue  .  .  . 
Je   vomis   mes   maltres 

Steeplejack 


BONI   AND   LlVERIGHT 

Publishers      New  York 


PAINTED  VEILS 

Copyright,  1920.  by 
James  Huneker 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PAINTED  VEILS 


This  edition  consists  of  1200  copies,  numbered  and 
signed  by  the  Author.     This  is  No ,    J  L'/  t?— 


/> //•"/<? 


//, 


/ 


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Toward  the  immutable  land  Istar,  daughter  of  Sin, 
bent  her  steps,  toward  the  abode  of  the  dead,  toward  the 
seven-gated  abode  where  He  entered,  toward  the  abode 
whence  there  is  no  return. 


At  the  first  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;  he  took 
the  high  tiara  from  her  head. 

At  the  second  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;  he  took 
the  pendants  from  her  ears. 

At  the  third  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;  he  took 
off  the  precious  stones  that  adorn  her  neck. 

At  the  fourth  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;  he  took 
off  the  jewels  that  adorn  her  breast. 

At  the  fifth  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;  he  took 
off  the  girdle  that  encompasses  her  waist. 

At  the  sixth  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;  he  took 
the  rings  from  her  feet,  the  rings  from  her  hands. 

At  the  seventh  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;  he  took 
off  the  last  veil  that  covers  her  body. 


Istar,  daughter  of  Sin,  went  into  the  immutable  land, 
she  took  and  received  the  Waters  of  Life.     She  gave 


the  Sublime  Waters,  and  thus,  in  the  presence  of  all, 

delivered  the  Son  of  Life,  her  young  lover. 

*     *     * 

EPOPEE   d'lzDUBAR    (6th    Chant) 
(Englished  by  W.  F.  APTHOEP) 


THE  SEVEN  DEADLY  VIRTUES 

Now  the  Seven  Deadly  Virtues  are:  Humility, 
Charity,  Meekness,  Temperance,  Brotherly  Love, 
Diligence,  Chastity.  And  the  Seven  Deadly  Arts  are: 
Poetry,  Music,  Architecture,  Painting,  Sculpture, 
Drama,  Dancing. 


This  Parable,  with  its  notations  and  evocations  of 
naked  nerves  and  soul-states,  is  inscribed  in  all  gratitude 
to  the  charming  morganatic  ladies,  les  belles  impures, 
who  make  pleasanter  this  vale  of  tears  for  virile  men. 
What  shall  it  profit  a  woman  if  she  saves  her  soul, 
but  loseth  love? 


"La  pudeur?  belle  vertu!   qu'on  attache  sur  soi  avec  des  epingles" 
.     .  Madame  d'Epinay 

"L'amour  cette  forme  meilleure  de  la  charite." 

Catutte  Mendea 

"Lo!  the  Lesbians,  their  sterile  sex  advancing".     .     . 

Steeplejack 


.     .     .  "Down  from  the  waist  they  are  Centaurs, 

Though  women  all  above: 
But  to  the  girdle  do  the  gods  inherit, 
Beneath  is  all  the  fiend's; 

There's  hell,  there's  darkness,  there's  the  sulphurous  pit, 
Burning,  scalding,  stench,  consumption;  fie,  fie,  fie!  .     .     ." 
"King  Lear."    Act  IV,  scene  VI 


THE  FIRST  GATE 

At  the  first  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;   he  took  the 
high  tiara  from  her  head  .    .    . 


Until  the  day  of  her  death  Easter  never  forgot  that 
first  night  in  New  York.  It  was  the  initial  twist  of  her 
ship's  wheel,  and  the  commonplace  happenings  which 
followed  her  entrance  into  the  Maison  Felice  were  to 
give  force  and  direction  to  her  entire  life. 

The  journey  from  Washington  had  been  stupid.  An 
early  November  afternoon  sky  heavy  with  threatening 
snow,  her  nerves  tense  with  expectation,  made  the  girl 
feel  that  the  big  city  once  reached  her  troubles  would 
be  over;  but  at  Jersey  City  they  began.  After  a  few 
blunders  she  reached  the  23rd  Street  ferry  and  noted  the 
snow  falling  in  the  foggy  river.  Her  baggage  had  been 
checked  to  the  hotel  and  she  had  nothing  to  do  but 
climb  into  a  hansom  and  direct  the  driver  to  west  25th 
Street.  She  made  a  tentative  bargain  with  the  man. 
Easter  was  prudent  because  she  had  little  money.  The 
hotel — it  was  in  reality  two  old-fashioned  houses  with 
high  steps  and  brown  stone  fagades,  the  conventional 
residence  of  the  early  eighties — did  not  impress  her; 
besides,  it  was  snowing  so  thickly  that  she  could  hardly 
distinguish  anything,  and  when  she  was  admitted  into 
the  hall  the  light  dazzled  her  eyes.  She  felt  lonely, 
timid,  uncomfortable.  A  tall,  portly  lady  saluted  her. 

"You  are  Mile.  Esther  Brandes?     I  am  Madame 


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Felice."  Her  room  had  been  engaged  for  a  month  ahead 
through  the  aid  of  a  common  friend.  Her  heart  beat 
faster  when  the  Frenchwoman  politely  said: 

"I  am  sorry,  Mile.  Brandes.  Your  room  is  occupied 
for  a  few  days.  We  did  not  expect  you  till  next  week." 
The  look  of  dismay  on  the  newcomer's  face  must  have 
appealed,  for  Madame  added: 

"But  I  shall  put  you  in  another  room,  a  splendid 
apartment  on  the  ground  floor.  You  will  like  it.  It 
will  cost  you  only  five  dollars  a  day,  tout  compris.  Do 
you  speak  French?"  Easter  nodded.  She  was  so 
appalled  at  the  price  that  she  was  speechless. 

"But — but — "  she  stammered. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  continued  Madame  in  her  native 
tongue  and  more  pleasantly,  "yes,  I  know,  but  it  is 
only  for  one  week  and  if  Mile.  Brandes  could  see  our 
waiting  list !"  That  settled  the  matter.  She  bowed  her 
head  and  soon  a  maid  had  her  handbag  open  in  a  small 
bedroom  adjoining  a  large  well-furnished  room,  con 
taining  a  grand  pianoforte.  There  were  three  windows 
at  the  side.  "The  piano,  it  is  the  property  of  Monsieur 
Invern.  He  is  away  till  next  week,"  said  the  too  confi 
dential  gossip.  Easter  handed  her  a  tip  and  she  bowed 
herself  out.  The  chandelier  gave  plenty  of  light. 
There  were  bookcases.  Much  music.  On  the  walls 
hung  photographs  of  composers.  Evidently  the  apart 
ment  of  a  musical  person.  She  looked  out  of  a  window. 
An  extension  with  skylights,  and  a  noise  of  clattering 
dishes  coupled  with  certain  odours,  not  disagreeable  to 


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her  nostrils,  told  her  that  the  cuisine  of  the  establish 
ment  was  beneath.  What  she  saw  was  the  roof  of  the 
dining-room.  Maison  Felice  was  one  of  those  semi- 
hotels  with  table  d'hotes  so  popular  in  New  York  two 
or  three  decades  ago.  The  cookery  was  French  and  no 
toriously  good.  Its  fame  spread  to  Virginia,  where  a 
friend  of  her  mother's  had  secured,  after  the  funeral 
of  the  poor  woman,  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Madame 
Felice.  It  was  not  easy  to  get  into  the  hotel  as  a 
permanent  guest. 

Easter  should  have  accounted  herself  lucky.  She 
didn't.  She  was  too  miserably  homesick  for  a  home  that 
no  longer  existed  to  bother  about  the  exclusiveness  of 
an  hotel.  Her  glance  traversed  the  lighted  roof  of  the 
dining-room,  and  through  the  fast  dropping  snow  it  was 
arrested  by  a  gloomy  wall.  Again  her  heart  sank. 

"My  God!"  she  cried.  "What  a  dismal  prospect!" 
Without  parents  and  in  her  wallet  a  hundred  dollars 
she  was  alone  in  New  York.  The  situation  was  almost 
melodramatic.  That  snowstorm  viewed  in  the  aperture 
between  two  buildings,  and  from  the  windows  of  a  hired 
apartment,  made  an  ineradicable  impression.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  absolutely  friendless. 

Madame  had  told  her  the  hour  for  dinner — 7  till 
8  p.  m.;  the  luncheon  was  till  2  o'clock;  and  breakfast 
eaten  in  the  room.  A  foreign  atmosphere  permeated 
the  house.  She  turned  away  from  the  depressing  night, 
lighted  all  the  gas-burners,  pulled  down  the  shades  and 
proceeded  to  make  a  modest  toilette.  Her  trunk  hadn't 


14  PAINTED  VEILS 

arrived,  so  she  must  eat  her  first  meal  in  street  clothes. 
No  gong  had  sounded.  Summoning  courage  she  pressed 
a  button.  No  answer,  but  from  the  sounds  of  talking 
and  general  bustle  she  knew  that  dinner  was  served. 
Another  embarrassment.  How  to  enter  a  dining-room 
full  of  strangers?  Easter  was  a  well-bred  young  woman, 
but  not  accustomed  to  the  world;  above  all,  to  a 
Bohemian  world.  At  the  Maison  Felice,  she  had  been 
informed,  that  the  guests  were  celebrated.  Singers, 
painters,  actors,  musicians  there  congregated.  A 
perfect  Bohemia  where  she  would  rub  elbows,  even 
speak  to  the  people  she  most  admired — artistic  folk. 
She  crossed  a  parlour,  and  found  herself  on  a  landing 
from  wrhich  she  could  see  a  long  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  with  little  tables  ranged  along  the  walls.  A 
numerous  company  was  assembled,  gabbling,  eating, 
drinking,  seemingly  happy.  An  old  chap  with  a  bald 
head  and  grizzled  moustaches  saluted  her  rather 
markedly.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot.  He  looked  pros 
perous  and  authoritative. 

"I  wish  you  the  good-evening  and  a  welcome,  Made 
moiselle,"  he  said.  "You  must  be  tired  and  hungry.  I 
am  Monsieur  Felice.  Come  with  me.  I  give  you  a 
table  to  yourself  with  only  one  other  guest.  But — a 
nice  young  man,  I  assure  you,  quite  an  old  friend  of  the 
house."  His  speech  was  voluble,  accompanied  by  many 
gestures.  He  was  Provencal,  his  wife  Swiss.  He  stared 
at  the  girl.  She  was  pretty,  though  not  to  his  taste. 
He  preferred  blondes.  She  sat  herself  at  a  table  near  the 


PAINTED  VEILS  15 

short  flight  of  steps  that  led  from  the  foyer  to  the  salle- 
a-manger.  She  was  alone.  Soon  her  soup  was  served. 
It  was  like  wine  to  her  faded  spirits.  Easter  felt  more 
cheerful.  Decidedly  a  full  stomach  is  an  obstacle  to 
melancholy .  She  sipped  a  glass  of  red  wine .  Her  humour 
began  to  mellow.  The  soup  was  excellent,  the  fish 
promising — and  then  there  stood  before  her,  slightly 
bowing,  a  small,  slender  young  man  who  introduced 
himself: 

"Papa  Felice  tells  me  I  am  to  have  the  honour  of 
sitting  at  dinner  with  you.  My  name  is  Stone,  Alfred 
Stone,  at  your  service."  His  manner  was  a  trifle  formal. 
He  looked  about  forty  and  was  barely  thirty.  A  young- 
old  man,  worn,  though  not  precisely  dissipated  looking. 
Easter  didn't  know  whether  she  liked  or  disliked  him. 
She  resented  his  presence  because  he  disturbed  her 
dreams.  But  when  he  asked  her  name  she  became 
interested. 

"Papa  Felice  says  you  are  a  singer,  Miss  Brandes. 
Brandes!  That  must  be  a  Jewish  name?" 

"No,  I  am  not  Jewish.  And  my  first  name  Esther! 
My  father  was  born  in  Virginia.  So  was  I.  He  may 
have  had  Jewish  blood  in  his  veins.  I  don't  know. 
He  said  his  father  was  a  Dane — " 

"Aha!"  cried  Stone.  "Georg  Brandes  the  Danish 
writer  is  a  Jew,  and  there  is  Marthe  Brandes  of  Paris, 
you  know,  the  beautiful  actress — " 

"I've  never  been  to  Paris,"  interrupted  Easter.  "Is 
she  a  great  actress  this  Marthe  Brandes?" 


16  PAINTED  VEILS 

"Not  so  great  as  alluring.  Yes,  she  is  great  if  com 
pared  with  any  English  or  American  actress."  His 
dark  eyes  glowed.  He  almost  became  animated. 
Easter  listened  with  curiosity.  A  man  who  spoke  with 
such  surety  was  somebody.  Who  was  this  Mr.  Stone? 
She  tried  him  with  a  touch  of  flattery. 

"You  must  have  seen  a  lot  of  actresses  to  pass  such 
a  judgment."  He  became  quite  languid. 

"Miss  Brandes,  I  am  a  critic  of  the  theatre  and  music." 
She  eagerly  responded: 

"A  critic  of  music.  How  nice."  His  depression  in 
creased. 

"What's  nice  about  it?"  he  asked  in  a  sullen  tone. 

"Oh,  to  hear  all  the  great  singers  and  players." 

"You  mean,  to  be  forced  to  hear  a  lot  of  mediocrities. 
Even  the  great  ones,  Lilli  Lehmann,  Brandt,  the  De 
Reszkes,  get  on  my  nerves.  You  can  have  too  much  of 
a  good  thing  my  dear  young  lady."  She  became  still 
more  absorbed. 

"Now,  tell  me.  What  are  you  after?"  he  demanded 
in  kindly  fashion. 

"I  mean  to  be  a  great  dramatic  soprano,"  she  confi 
dently  asserted. 

"Aha!"  he  vouchsafed.  "Rather  a  modest  programme." 

"I  mean  to  accomplish  it,"  she  retorted.  He  was 
visibly  impressed. 

"Of  course,  a  great  voice  you  must  have  to  begin 
with;  and  then  there  are  such  items  as  vocal  technique 
and  dramatic  temperament,  and  beauty — you  are  well 


PAINTED  VEILS  17 

supplied  in  that — "  he  gallantly  bowed — "Thank  you," 
said  the  girl  not  in  the  least  abashed;  she  knew  she 
was  good-looking — "and  how  many  other  qualifi 
cations?"  he  interposed. 

"I  speak  French.  My  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman. 
I  speak  Italian,  without  an  accent,  my  teacher  said — " 
"Without  an  Italian  accent,  he  meant?" — "No,  with  a 
Tuscan  accent,"  the  girl  proudly  replied;  "and  I'm  a 
trained  musician,  a  solo  pianist,  and  accompanist  and 
read  and  transpose  at  sight.  I — "  He  wearily  waved 
her  words  away. 

"Yes,  yes.  I  know  all  about  you  girls  who  play,  sing, 
transpose  and  compose.  There's  Yankee  versatility, 
if  you  please.  Universal  genius.  And  you  couldn't 
compose  a  role  any  more  than  you  could  cook  your 
husband's  dinner — if  you  were  unlucky  enough  to  have 
one."  Easter  smiled  and  it  was  like  sunrise.  Something 
inexpressibly  youthful  came  into  the  world. 

"At  any  rate  I  have  a  good  dinner  if  I  haven't  the 
husband,"  she  challenged.  He  assented.  "The  cuisine 
here  is  famous.  Not  at  Martin's,  or  Delmonico's,  or 
down  on  14th  Street  at  Moretti's  is  there  better  flavoured 
food."  They  had  not  reached  coffee.  The  sweets  were 
insignificant.  Easter  positively  became  buoyant.  She 
must  have  had  Celtic  in  her,  she  went  from  the  cellar 
to  the  clouds  and  the  clouds  to  the  cellar  with  such 
facility.  Her  Avernus  once  achieved,  the  rebound  was 
sure  to  follow.  Momentarily  she  forgot  her  poverty, 


18  PAINTED  VEILS 

loneliness,  strangeness,  and  Mr.  Stone  was  like  a  friend 
in  need.  She  played  confidential. 

"All  my  life  I've  been  at  music.  I  was  born  near 
Warrenton  on  a  farm.  Then  we  moved  to  Richmond. 
Papa  was  unfortunate.  I  appeared  as  a  child  prodigy, 
later  I  taught  little  girls  some  older  than  myself.  I 
began  singing,  in  the  cradle,  mother  said.  Poor  dear 
mother.  She  was  so  wrapped  up  in  my  musical  career." 
(He  thought:  "They  all  say  the  same  things  .  .  al 
ready,  career!")  "She  died  last  Spring.  Father  has 
been  away  for  years" — Easter  hesitated — "and  here  I 
am  with  lots  of  conceit  and  no  money — to  speak  of — 
and  yet  I  mean  to  succeed." 

He  admired  her,  this  tall  black-haired  girl  with  the 
broad  shoulders  and  steady  eyes.  Physical  signs  au 
gured  well.  Her  ears  were  small,  shapely,  her  throat  a 
tower  of  strength.  Her  bust  was  undeveloped,  but 
the  chest  measurement  unusual.  He  couldn't  see  her 
hips,  but  she  sat  boldly  upright  and  there  was  decision 
in  every  movement,  every  attitude.  Her  eyes  did  not 
please  his  fastidious  demands.  They  were  not  full- 
orbed,  rather  small,  deep-set,  and  he  couldn't  make 
up  his  mind  whether  in  colour  they  were  dark-blue 
or  dark-green;  at  times  they  seemed  both;  but  they 
went  well  with  the  blue-black  hair  coiled  about  a  wide 
low  forehead.  The  nose  was  too  large  for  canonic 
beauty;  but  it  was  boldly  jutting,  not  altogether 
aquiline,  a  good  rudder  for  a  striking  countenance,  and 
one  that  might  steer  her  little  ship  through  stormy 


PAINTED  VEILS  19 

weather.  The  ensemble  promised.  But  Stone  had 
witnessed  so  many  auspicious  beginnings  that  the 
brilliant  girl,  whose  speech  was  streaked  with  an  agreea 
ble  southern  accent,  did  not  altogether  convince  him. 
Another!  he  commented,  but  inaudibly.  He  gravely 
inquired  if  she  had  any  letters  to  musical  people. 

"Yes,  to  Madame  Fursch-Madi,  for  one.  Also  a 
letter  from  our  U.  S.  senator  to  the  Director  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House."  She  beamed.  Stone 
looked  at  her.  "Madame  Fursch-Madi  is  a  great 
dramatic  soprano,  but  she  hasn't  much  time  for  pupils, 
she  is  so  busy  with  concert  work.  But  you  may  have 
a  chance  if  your  voice  is  as  good  as  you  believe  it  to 
be.  La  Fursch  has  a  class  two  afternoons  in  the  week 
at  the  Conservatoire  Cosmopolitaine,  and  as  I  know 
Madame  Mayerbeer  the  director,  I  could  give  you 
a  letter  to  her;  better  still,  I  could  take  you  to  her 
and  introduce  you,  that  is  if  you  care  to  go."  He  is 
interested,  without  doubt,  thought  Easter.  She  was  in 
a  gleeful  mood,  but  held  herself  down.  The  effervescent 
kitten  tricks  might  not  please  this  cynical  critic.  She 
gladly  accepted  his  offer.  They  slowly  moved  from  the 
half-deserted  room.  Two  hours  had  quickly  passed. 
She  was  surprised.  Stone  spoke: 

"It's  too  soon  after  eating,  yet  I  wish  I  could  hear 
your  voice.  Then  I  might  judge.  Perhaps  Fursch- 
Madi  won't  bother  with  an  amateur.  Her  forte  is  not 
tone-production,  but  style.  She  is  an  operatic  stylist. 
To  hear  her  deliver  Pleurez,  mes  yeux  from  the  Cid,  or 


20  PAINTED  VEILS 

Printemps  from  Samson  et  Dalila  is  something  to 
remember.  The  true  Gallic  tradition,  broad  and 
dramatic,  with  justesse  in  expression.  Ah!  Only  Lilli 
is  her  superior."  Out  of  breath,  he  paused.  He  was 
seldom  so  expansive,  he  loathed  enthusiasm.  His 
motto  in  life  was  Horatian.  To  this  he  superadded 
Richelieu's  injunction  "point  de  zele."  And  now  he 
was  spilling  over  like  a  green  provincial.  Evil  com 
munications,  he  sighed. 

Easter  clapped  her  hands.  As  she  felt  herself  to  be 
the  pivot  of  the  universe,  visible  and  invisible,  she  spoke 
only  of  her  own  sensations :  "Teachers  say  that  my  voice 
is  placed  to  perfection.  I  don't  think  there  will  be 
much  trouble  about  Madame  Fursch.  However,  Mr. 
Stone,  if  it  is  allowed  in  this  hotel,  I  occupy  a  par 
lour  and  there  is  a  pianoforte."  It  was  soon  settled. 
Madame  Felice  was  gracious.  So  was  Monsieur.  They 
were  both  poker-players  and  were  only  too  glad  to  get 
to  the  table  in  their  private  apartment. 

"Hullo!"  exclaimed  Stone,  "you  have  Invern's  place, 
haven't  you?"  They  were  in  the  girl's  apartment. 

"Who  is  Invern?"  she  mildly  inquired. 

"Ulick  Invern,  a  writer,  incidentally  a  critic.  He 
has  lived  here  ever  since  he  came  from  Paris.  No,  he 
isn't  a  Frenchman.  Paris  born,  of  New  York  stock, 
but  a  confirmed  Parisian.  So  am  I,  poor  devil,  that 
I  am.  But  he  is  rich,  at  least  well-to-do,  and  I  must 
make  my  salt  writing  for  the  newspapers.  Go  ahead. 
Sing  some  scales  mezzo-voce,  at  first,  it  won't  be  such 


PAINTED  VEILS  £1 

an  effort  at  that."    Easter  sang.    Two  octaves  she  glided 
through. 

"Phew !"  cried  her  listener.  "Big,  fruity,  lots  of  colour, 
velvety.  But  who  placed  your  voice  did  you  say?" 

The  girl  stubbornly  answered:  "Mrs.  Dodd,  and  she 
said—" 

"Rot!  No  matter  what  she  said.  You  have  a  rare 
voice.  It's  a  pity  it  wasn't  taken  in  hand  sooner.  But 
you  sing  by  the  grace  of  God.  Naturally.  And  that's 
something.  No,  Fursch  won't  bother  with  you. 
Madame  Ash  is  your  woman.  She  will  get  that  refrac 
tory  break  in  your  register  safely  back  on  the  rails .  Take 
my  word  for  it,  Miss — Miss — "  he  hesitated.  "Esther 
Brandes — my  friends  nickname  me  Easter,  and  I 
answer  to  that,"  she  confessed.  "Well,  Miss  Easter, 
I'm  not  so  sure  that  your  self-confidence — egotism  is 
sometimes  a  form  of  genius  you  know — isn't  justified. 
You  have  voice,  presence,  intelligence,  ambition.  Good 
Lord !  a  lot  of  singers  with  half  your  gifts  have  become 
famous.  It  all  depends  on  you — and  chance.  Don't 
mock  that  word — chance.  Luck  is  two-thirds  the 
battle.  I'd  rather  be  lucky  than  rich."  He  ruefully 
thought  of  the  last  horse  race  at  which  the  bookmakers 
had  picked  his  ribs  bare.  "What  time  shall  I  call  for 
you  tomorrow?" 

"Nine  o'clock,"  she  quickly  responded,  all  flame. 

"Good  heavens  girl.  That's  the  middle  of  the  night. 
Let  us  say,  after  luncheon.  I'll  be  here  at  3  o'clock.  I 
can't  get  in  for  luncheon  as  I  don't  rise  till  midday. 


22  PAINTED  VEILS 

Then — ho !  for  the  Conservatoire  Cosmopolitaine,  where 
they  teach  you  to  sing  in  every  language — but  your  own. 
Madame  Mayerbeer  is  Gallic  or  nothing."  He  made  a 
formal  bow  and  took  his  leave.  Easter  stood  at  the 
pianoforte  dreaming.  Was  it,  after  all,  coming,  the 
realization  of  her  mother's  solitary  ambition?  But 
once  between  the  sheets  Easter  didn't  dream.  The  day 
and  its  wonderful  events  had  exhausted  her.  She  was 
awakened  in  broad  daylight  by  the  maid  who  asked  her 
if  she  would  have  coffee  or  chocolate. 


II 

Alfred  Stone  reflected:  She  is  unusual.  Never  mind 
her  beauty  or  her  voice;  it's  her  personality  that  will 
win  out.  What  curious  eyes.  Hard  as  steel  when  she 
doesn't  like  the  way  things  are  going.  Big  heart? 
Yes — for  herself .  A  cold  hard-boiled  egg  is  that  same 
heart.  Temperament!  Well,  I  don't  know.  She  may 
be  as  hot  as  a  red-hot  stove,  but  she  is  cerebral  all 
the  same.  Never  will  waste  herself  in  the  swamp  of 
sensual  sentimentality.  She  will  learn  to  use  a  man 
just  as  a  man  uses  a  woman.  Un,  deux,  trois — c'est 
fini!  That's  the  only  way.  Like  trying  on  a  new  pair 
of  gloves.  Do  they  fit?  No.  Chuck  'em  away.  I 
think  Frida  Ash  is  the  right  card  for  her,  not  Fursch. 
Easter  is  not  ready  yet  for  the  footlights. 

He  walked  into  the  vestibule  of  the  Maison  Felice 
and  to  his  surprise  found  her  waiting  for  him. 


PAINTED  VEILS  23 

"What!  Punctuality  in  a  future  prima-donna," 
he  jested.  Easter  disliked  him  this  afternoon.  She 
was  in  an  umbrageous  humour.  She  had  slept  soundly, 
the  day  was  clear,  the  air  crisp,  the  snow  was  not  ankle- 
deep.  Why  had  she  turned  cold?  She  didn't  know. 
Stone  suddenly  bored  her.  Yet  she  had  passed  the 
morning  thinking  of  him.  Why  his  sudden  interest? 
Would  he  try  to  profit  by  her?  Such  things  she  had 
read  about  in  musical  journals.  Managers — who  didn't 
advertise — were  denounced  by  unselfish  editors.  Per 
haps  he  would  make  a  commission  by  taking  her  to 
the  Cosmopolitaine.  Nasty  mean  suspicions  closed 
in  upon  her.  She  couldn't  shake  them  off.  She  sang 
some  scales;  she  read  without  interest  a  morning 
newspaper  that  she  had  found  in  the  rusty  drawing- 
room.  The  French  breakfast  of  chocolate  and  rolls 
didn't  appeal  to  her.  She  possessed  a  young,  healthy 
appetite;  and  she  missed  the  cozy  chatter  of  the  Amer 
ican  breakfast-table.  Several  times  she  peeped  through 
the  glass  door  of  her  apartment,  but  saw  no  one.  Var 
ious  noises  told  her  that  the  household  was  cleaning. 
In  despair  she  took  a  warm  bath  and  admired  the 
rickety  old  tub,  sheet-iron,  not  porcelain.  She  admired 
her  body's  lithe  length  as  she  faced  an  oval  mirror. 
I  am  nice,  she  thought.  Smooth,  white,  not  hairy 
like  so  many  girls  I  know.  Her  breasts  were  sketchy, 
but  her  bosom  was  so  massive  that  a  rich  harvest  was 
certain.  Her  pelvic  curve  was  classic,  her  legs  long 
and  not  knock-kneed.  The  Lord  be  praised  for  that 


24  PAINTED  VEILS 

much!  she  said  aloud.  It  was  her  hair  that  most 
pleased  her.  Black  with  a  suggestion  of  blue  it  was 
like  a  helmet  on  her  small  head.  Its  tone  was  faintly 
echoed  in  the  arm-pits  and  on  the  tache  d'encre,  as  they 
say  in  the  painter's  atelier.  A  robust  girl  and  a  de 
sirable  one,  though  the  languorous,  voluptuous  air 
was  absent.  Easter  might  be  profoundly  immoral, 
but  never  a  slimy  odalisque.  Her  temperament  was 
too  tonic.  Passion — yes,  to  the  edge  of  tatters.  Foam 
ing  passion;  but  no  man  would  ever  call  her  slave. 
This  she  resolved,  as  she  squeezed  her  tiny  breasts. 
Then  she  bowed  low  to  her  image,  kicked  her  right 
leg  on  high,  turned  her  comely  back,  peeped  over 
her  shoulder,  mockingly  stuck  out  her  tongue  as  she  re 
garded  with  awe — almost — the  width  of  her  delicately 
modelled  buttocks.  "Good  heavens!"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  hope  I'm  not  going  to  get  a  married  woman's  bottom 
like  Amy  Brown's."  Then  she  slowly  dressed,  after 
much  pagan  joy  over  her  physical  beauty. 

She  ate  everything  they  brought  her  at  the  luncheon 
table.  "Starved,  that's  what  I  am.  Nothing  since 
last  night."  She  was  glad  to  be  alone  at  table.  She 
wished  to  think  over  the  situation.  Her  money 
wouldn't  last  long.  What  then!  Not  for  a  moment 
did  she  consider  the  possibility  of  a  complaisant  rich 
man.  She  knew  her  value  in  that  direction;  always, 
or  nearly  always,  having  a  man  messing  about  you! 
No,  she  preferred  her  liberty,  the  most  precious  liberty 
of  sleeping  solo,  of  arising  in  the  morning  alone.  She 


PAINTED  VEILS  25 

swallowed  her  demi-tasse  and  found  Stone  at  the 
door. 

"Let's  walk  to  Union  Square,"  he  said  and  she  assent 
ed.  They  went  across  to  Broadway.  He  quietly 
studied  his  companion,  who,  in  the  liveliest  spirits, 
hummed,  chattered,  flirted  with  every  good-looking 
man  she  passed,  and  elbowed  her  companion  into  a 
state  of  irritation.  He  was  a  stickler  for  the  nuances 
of  behaviour,  especially  in  women.  He,  the  Bohemian, 
frequenter  of  race-courses,  gambling  hells,  cafes, 
cocottes  and  even  worse,  couldn't  tolerate  a  slang 
phrase  from  the  mouth  of  a  woman.  He  saw  that 
Easter  was  crude,  though  not  coarse.  Her  education 
had  been  the  normal  unintelligent  education  of  small 
towns.  She  hadn't  been  taught  to  talk,  walk  or  dress 
properly.  Nevertheless,  she  wasn't  slouchy,  and  her 
bearing  distinctive.  She  was  Esther  Brandes,  and 
six  months  hence  she  would  be  a  full-fledged  New 
York  woman.  Of  that  he  was  assured.  Perhaps 
sooner.  And  men?  She  liked  them,  he  saw  that.  Had 
she?  Who  could  tell?  She  wasn't  shy.  She  hadn't 
thus  far  blushed.  To  be  sure,  the  conversation  hadn't 
strayed  from  the  conventional.  Then  he  laughed. 
She  turned  to  him. 

"Let  me  laugh,  too,"  she  begged.  "I  was  thinking," 
he  explained,  "of  an  old  maid  aunt  of  mine  who  used 
to  pray  the  Lord  she  wouldn't  die  guessing."  Easter 
stopped  and  unrestrainedly  roared.  He  was  scandal 
ized.  "Hurry  up,"  he  expostulated.  "We  shall  be  late, 


26  PAINTED  VEILS 

otherwise."  But  he  was  secretly  elated  at  the  quick- 
fire  success  of  his  joke.  A  smart  girl,  that;  she  will 
go  far — perhaps  too  far.  They  went  into  the  Con 
servatoire  Cosmopolitaine.  The  door  was  opened 
by  a  polite  coloured  man.  He  said  Madame  was  busy 
just  then.  Wouldn't  they  wait  in  the  reception  room? 
Stone  called  the  old  man  "George"  and  gave  him  a 
cigarette.  The  room  was  on  the  first  floor  facing  the* 
entrance  hall.  At  the  stroke  of  four  gabble  was  heard. 
Girls  and  young  men  with  fiddle  cases  and  music- 
rolls  tumbled  down  stairs,  while  fresh  classes  were 
forming.  A  weary  or  bored  instructor  bustled  among 
his  pupils.  A  gong  struck.  "Now,  ladies,  now  gentle 
men,"  called  out  George.  "Upstairs,  please,  for  Mon 
sieur  Lapoul's  class." 

"It's  run  like  a  railway  station  here,"  said  Stone. 
Then  added  in  French,  "We  shall  see  Madame  Mayer- 
beer  first,  but  don't  say  anything  about  Fursch-Madi. 
I'd  like  to  get  you  on  the  free-list,  then,  perhaps, 
you  might  help  out  by  accompanying."  Easter  tried 
to  look  grateful,  but  couldn't.  "What  do  they  pay 
accompanists  by  the  hour?"  she  naively  inquired. 

"Pon  my  word,"  he  answered,  "you  are  a  regular 
pawnbroker." 

"Oh,  it's  all  very  well  for  you.  You're  a  man.  I 
must  work  for  my  living."  She  was  tart.  He  grimly 
smiled:  "A  critic  who  has  to  listen  to  rotten  singers 
isn't  working,  is  he?  Hello!  here's  Madame."  A 
pretty  plump  little  woman,  picturesquely  garbed  in 


PAINTED  VEILS  27 

brown-ribbed  velvet,  wearing  a  man's  collar  and  cravat 
artistically  tied,  tripped  into  the  room  and  in  French 
bade  them  the  time  of  day.  Stone  took  her  apart 
and  whispered  in  her  little  ear,  which  her  loosely 
piled  iron  gray  hair  did  not  conceal.  But  she  was  all 
eyes  for  the  girl,  who  in  turn  devoured  this  model 
Parisienne.  And  she  is  an  American,  what  chic! 
thought  Easter.  "A  voice,  you  say,  Alfred,  and  such 
good  looks.  I  should  say  so.  Come  up  stairs,  Miss 
Brandes.  Nice  stage  name,  eh,  Alfred!  Of  course, 
she  will  go  into  the  Fursch  class."  "I  don't  know  about 
that,"  answered  Stone,  who  seemed  to  be  an  oracle  in 
the  eyes  of  Madame.  "I  should  rather  say  Ash.  The 
young  lady  has  a  lot  to  learn,  a  long  road  to  travel — 
"Yes,  but"— "But  me  no  buts,"  he  retorted.  "With 
Fursch-Madi  she  will  only  get  a  vocal  top-dressing, 
whereas  it's  the  roots  that  need  attending  to.  No,  try 
Frida  Ash." 

"Bien,  monsieur,  mais  vous  etes  exigeant."  Madame 
Mayerbeer  turned  to  the  girl  and  fairly  glowed  with 
enthusiasm. 

"I  am  a  lover  of  beauty,  Miss  Brandes,  in  all  its 
forms.  You  must  be  with  us.  Our  Conservatoire 
is  truly  international.  We  develop  native  talent 
irrespective  of  race  or  religion.  Talent  is  what  we  are 
after,  and  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  our  teaching 
staff  is  the  most  famous  in  the  world.  Such  genius. 
But  the  combination  of  beauty  and  talent — you, 
Mr.  Stone  tells  me,  possess  a  wonderful  voice — All 


28  PAINTED  VEILS 

right,  George.  Tell  her  I'll  be  upstairs  soon.  Attendez. 
..."  She  rushed  out  to  the  stairway.  "Adele,  I'll 
be  up  in  a  minute.  We  have  just  discovered  a  treasure. 
A  marvellous  voice,  so  Mr.  Stone  declares.  .  .  " 
A  grumbling  voice  called  down: 

"Another  of  his  discoveries — like  the  last  I  suppose." 
There  was  ironic  edge  to  her  words.  Stone  never 
winced,  Madame  was  only  more  amiable.  "I'm  crazy 
to  hear  you  sing."  There  was  genuine  fire  in  her  lovely 
eyes.  Easter  was  quite  willing.  But  M.  Lapoul 
wouldn't  be  ready  for  a  half -hour. 

"George,  tell  M.  Lapoul  to  dismiss  his  class  for  the 
day,"  cried  Madame  impetuously.  "Say  I  wish  to 
consult  him  about  our  new  scheme  for  a  Theatre 
d'application  here  in  the  Conservatoire."  Ten  minutes 
later  light  footsteps  were  heard.  A  fantastic  French 
man  rushed  in,  kissed  Madame's  hand,  bowed,  till 
his  spine  cracked,  before  Easter  and  stared  her  out 
of  countenance.  He  was  the  typical  Gallic  tenor  and 
jeune-premier.  Hair  worn  bang-fashion  like  a  silly 
girl,  a  sparse,  peaked  beard,  moustaches  upturned — 
the  conquering  rooster  was  evoked  by  every  movement 
of  his  graceful,  insolent,  interesting  person.  But  his 
eyes  were  superb,  thought  Easter,  who  was  fascinated 
by  their  size,  lustre,  and  the  heavy  romantic  lashes 
that  fringed  them.  So  this  is  the  celebrated  Victor 
Lapoul,  the  singer  who  turned  the  heads  of  Parisian 
women  when  he  warbled  so  amorously  at  the  Comique, 
she  mused.  They  say  he  hasn't  much  voice  left.  It's 


PAINTED  VEILS  29 

all  in  his  personality.  The  tenor  circled  her  as  a  cat 
does  a  mouse.  He  wore  a  preposterously  low  collar, 
his  hairy  chest  was  partly  visible.  Ugh!  Easter 
didn't  like  hairy  men.  She  shocked  her  mother  when 
a  growing  girl  by  declaring  she  would  never  marry, 
because  she  wouldn't  be  able  to  endure  the  sight  of 
her  husband's  hairy  legs  when  he  got  out  of  bed  in 
the  morning.  Her  mother  shrugged  despairing  shoul 
ders.  I've  hatched  out  a  queer  bird,  this  Yankee 
child  of  mine,  said  the  Frenchwoman.  But  she  re 
doubled  her  watch  on  the  girl's  goings  and  comings. 
No  such  feeble  excuse  as  spending  the  night  with  a 
school-girl  friend  imposed  upon  this  experienced  woman. 
Strange  to  relate  that  Easter  was  as  strictly  chaperoned 
as  if  living  on  the  continent.  She,  American  born, 
was  brought  up  like  a  French  provincial  miss. 

In  the  space  of  Victor  Lapoul's  room  Easter  sang. 
She  had  boasted  to  the  amused  Stone  that  her  operatic 
repertoire  began  with  Pinafore  and  ended  with  Isolde. 
Sweet  Little  Buttercup  and  Isolde!  It  was  too  much 
for  his  gravity.  He  said  so  and  she  was  annoyed.  A 
characteristic.  The  slightest  contradiction  and  she 
became  belligerent.  She  accompanied  herself  in  "Good 
Night"  by  Dvorak.  Madame  was  all  smiles.  A  diplo 
matic  girl,  this,  to  first  sing  a  composition  by  the 
reigning  Director  of  the  institution.  Lapoul,  his  arms 
melodramatically  folded,  struck  an  attitude  at  the 
end  of  the  instrument.  He  was  apparently  more 
absorbed  in  the  face  of  the  singer  than  by  her  singing. 


30  PAINTED  VEILS 

He  made  no  comment  when  she  finished.  Stone 
cynically  regarded  the  tenor.  "Cabotin"  he  whispered 
to  the  patronne,  who  never  budged.  She  was  accus 
tomed  to  his  carping  tongue.  Easter  had  expected 
tumultuous  acclaim.  The  silence  chilled  her  a  trifle, 
but  she  didn't  lose  courage.  Oh!  well,  I'll  try  them 
with  something  classic,  and  began  Isolde's  Liebestod. 
Lapoul  threw  up  his  arms:  "Suffering  Jesu,"  he  cried, 
"not  that,  not  that  accursed  requiem  of  a  tomcat 
howled  over  by  a  tabby." 

"You  see,  he  doesn't  care  much  for  Wagner,"  inter 
posed  Madame. 

"Care  much  is  good,"  laughed  Stone.  Lapoul  left 
the  room.  "Sing  something  French.  I'll  bring  him 
back,"  whispered  Madame.  It  is  still  1870  for  him." 
She  dashed  out.  Stone  looked  at  Easter,  she  looked 
at  Stone.  "Sing  anything  French,"  he  finally  com 
manded,  but  he  could  hardly  keep  his  face  straight. 
"M.  Escargot  will  run  in."  "Why  do  you  call  him  Es- 
cargot?  His  name  is  not  Snail."  Easter  was  all  smiles 
as  she  began  that  classic  of  barber-shop  and  bar 
room,  "Les  Rameaux."  Lapoul  tip-toed  in,  followed 
by  Madame.  The  music  suited  the  full-bodied  tones 
of  her  voice,  and,  as  Easter  knew  the  composition 
she  got  through  with  some  sense  of  triumph.  "Rotten," 
was  all  that  Stone  ejaculated.  The  tenor  applauded. 
A  very  magnificent,  extraordinary,  beautiful,  lovely, 
wonderful  soprano.  Ah!  one  year  in  his  class.  Made 
moiselle  would  be  a  marvellous  artiste.  Ravishing. 


PAINTED  VEILS  31 

Overwhelming.  The  Metropolitan  Opera  House  would 
gladly  throw  open  its  doors  to  such  genius.  All  the 
while  he  uttered  this  hyperbolical  praise  he  persistently 
fastened  his  bold  staring  eyes  upon  the  girl.  Stone 
noted  that  he  made  swallowing  movements  as  if  he 
were  about  to  taste  a  bonne-bouche.  His  offer  left 
the  company  cold.  His  scheme  didn't  suit  the  plans 
of  either  Madame  Mayerbeer  or  Alfred  Stone.  "Fursch- 
Madi,"  said  Madame.  "She  goes  to  Ash  or  no  one," 
muttered  Stone.  Why  the  girl  is  amateurish.  She 
has  no  steady  production,  she  phrases  like  a  fool. 
Madame  Frida  will  soon  fix  all  that.  They  moved  out. 
Lapoul  called  to  Easter.  "A  moment,  charming 
demoiselle."  She  returned  to  the  room  and  his  arms 
clasped  her  and  hot  moist  kisses  were  deposited  on 
her  cheek.  She  didn't  stir.  "But  you  are  adorable. 
Pardon,  a  thousand  pardons,"  he  begged.  She  didn't 
answer.  Stone  outside  the  door  winked  at  Madame, 
who  indulgently  smiled.  A  Frenchman  could  do  no 
harm  in  her  eyes.  "Cochon,"  exclaimed  Stone.  Easter 
reappeared  as  cool  as  a  dew-pearled  June  rose,  but 
she  wasn't  blushing.  "Great  God!  how  glacial  are 
these  American  misses,"  moaned  Lapoul,  when  alone. 
But  he  didn't  mean  what  he  said. 

Ill 

After  promising  to  return  early  the  next  morning 
Easter  shook  hands  with  Madame  Mayerbeer  and  went 


32  PAINTED  VEILS 

away  with  Stone.  As  they  descended  the  flight  of 
steps  a  clean-shaven  young  man  dashed  past  them. 
"Hallo  Alfred!"  he  cheerily  cried.  He  saluted,  but 
did  not  glance  at  the  girl.  He  was  in  a  hurry  and 
Stone  smilingly  turned  to  his  companion:  "Jewel  is 
always  late.  He  doesn't  give  a  hang  for  the  clock." 
Her  legs  shook  so  much  that  she  had  to  lean  on  Stone's 
arm.  "What's  the  matter?"  he  sharply  asked.  "My 
ankle  turned.  I  thought  I'd  fall.  Who  was  that  young 
man  with  the  blue  eyes?"  Stone  looked  at  her.  She 
was  pale  and  her  expression  far  from  amiable.  "Blue 
eyes,"  he  echoed,  "what  sharp  eyes  are  yours  Miss 
Brandes.  I'm  sorry  about  the  ankle.  Does  it  still 
hurt?"  They  were  now  arrived  at  Union  Square. 
"What  name  did  you  call  him?"  she  demanded  ob 
stinately.  "Oh,  Jewel — that  is,  Ulick  Invern  is  his 
whole  name.  He  lectures  on  music  every  week  at 
the  Cosmopolitaine — or  every  other  week,  just  as 
it  suits  his  lordship.  Madame  is  fond  of  him.  That's 
his  misfortune — his  popularity.  You  are  living  in 
his  rooms."  He  paused  and  asked  permission  to 
re-light  his  eternal  cigarette.  She  repeated  the  name: 
"Ulick  Invern.  So  that's  his  name."  There  was  some 
thing  so  strange  in  her  intonation  that  Stone  stopped. 
"Why?  Did  you  ever  meet  him?  Or  have  you  heard 
of  his  variegated  behaviour?"  She  marched  in  silence 
by  his  side.  Getting  rid  of  him  at  23rd  Street  pleading 
an  urgent  visit  to  one  of  the  shops  she  left  him  standing 
in  an  amazed  stupour,  and  quickly  vanished.  "Damn 


PAINTED  VEILS  33 

them  for  the  selfish  beasts  they  all  are.  They  are 
like  two  peas  in  a  pod  these  singers.  Ungrateful 
animals."  He  went  into  Valkenberg's  for  a  drink,  his 
vanity  thoroughly  ruffled.  .  . 

But  she  didn't  go  to  the  shops,  instead  hurried  home 
by  way  of  6th  Avenue.  Once  in  her  room,  with  the 
lock  turned  on  the  outer  world  she  sank  into  a  fauteuil 
and  pressed  her  burning  face  into  her  hands.  "Ulick 
Invern.  Ulick  Invern.  That's  his  name — at  last. 
What  a  coward  to  give  me  a  false  one."  When  she 
arose  her  eyes  were  glittering,  but  not  with  tears.  They 
were  as  dry  as  her  heart  and  that  was  like  a  cinder  in 
her  bosom. 


THE  SECOND  GATE 

At  the  second  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;   he  took 
the  pendants  from  her  ears.     .     . 


Ulick  Invern  preferred  the  short  cut  down  the  hill 
to  the  smoother  roundabout  road,  which,  though 
shaded,  was  dusty.  It  was  the  last  week  of  his  vacation, 
much  needed,  little  desired.  He  was  loath  to  leave 
New  York,  best-beloved  city  after  Paris;  but  his 
doctor  advised  him  to  try  New  Hampshire  to  relieve 
his  hay-fever.  As  he  went  across  the  fields  of  the  Forest 
Hills  park  he  was  forced  to  admit  that  the  fortnight 
in  Franconja  had  put  him  on  his  feet.  No  sneezing, 
no  insomnia,  no  writing,  lots  of  reading.  Such  read 
ing.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  no  fiction,  either 
frivolous  or  serious,  would  he  fetch  in  his  trunk;  not 
even  his  adored  Flaubert.  Nothing  but  books  dealing 
with  the  origins  of  religious  beliefs,  mystic  books; 
Thomas  a  Kempis,  Apollo,  by  Reinach,  several  Car 
dinal  Newman  volumes,  the  Old  Testament,  Brown 
ing,  and  as  a  concession  to  his  profane  leanings,  a 
copy  of  Petronius  in  the  original.  Ulick  was  a  fair 
latinist;  his  literary  tastes  versatile.  This  serene 
September  forenoon  he  pondered  the  idea  of  a  new 
religion.  He  had  been  reading  in  Reinach's  Apollo 
of  the  mushroom  swiftness  with  which  any  crazy 
silly  superstition  grows  overnight  in  proper  soil.  The 
more  ignorant  the  mob  the  easier  it  is  to  convince 
with  some  insane  doctrine.  Witness  the  growth  of 


38  PAINTED  VEILS 

Mormonism  or  the  new  cult  in  America  which  already 
boasted  a  female  pope  and  a  big  following. 

"A  new  religion,"  he  said  aloud.  "Well,  why  not? 
the  time  seems  ripe.  Everything  is  unsettled.  We 
are  on  the  verge  of  something  tremendous,  a  world- 
war,  a  social  revolution,  and  yet  we  have  never  been 
seemingly  more  prosperous — I  mean  the  entire  earth. 
We  must  be  entering  into  a  new  constellation;  per 
haps  Mars  is  in  the  ascendant;  or  the  sullen  house  of 
Saturn.  .  ."  Ulick  wasn't  a  star-worshipper,  he 
liked  to  flirt  with  astrology  as  he  flirted  with  a  belief 
in  the  Fourth  Dimension  of  Space.  He  was  a  well 
set-up  young  man  still  in  the  twenties,  vigourous  men 
tally  and  physically,  nervous  rather  than  muscular, 
yet  capable  of  great  powers  of  resistance.  His  friends, 
and  he  had  many,  said  he  was  too  volatile  to  com 
pass  distinction;  he  couldn't  stick  at  anything  over 
a  month.  This  mania  for  the  study  of  comparative 
religions  was  not  new — he  had  only  revived  an  old 
interest.  Christianity  with  its  stems  deep  in  Judaism, 
Asiatic  legends,  Alexandrian  mysticism;  with  its 
taboos,  fetishes,  totems,  animism  and  magic,  its 
lofty  belief  in  the  idealism  of  Jesus  and  its  mumbo- 
jumbo  conjurations  and  incredibly  absurd  miracles — 
this  welter  of  old-world  faiths  and  debasing  super 
stition,  a  polytheistic  Judaism,  held  his  fancy,  for,  as 
a  former  student  of  theology,  he  saw  more  clearly 
the  polyphonic  criss-crossing  of  ideas  and  ceremonies 
than  the  majority  of  critics.  A  palimpsest,  rather, 


PAINTED  VEILS  39 

many  palimpsests,  was  this  religion,  which  in  less 
than  two  thousand  years  has  undergone  more  radical 
changes  than  any  that  preceded  it.  A  chameleon 
among  religions,  compared  with  which  Buddhism  is  a 
rock  of  eternal  certitude.  But  sentimentality  always 
ends  by  wrecking  a  religion,  or  a  nation,  and  Christian 
ity  is  first  sentimental,  the  romantic  as  opposed  to 
the  classic  faiths  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 

He  debouched  into  the  road  leading  to  Zaneburg, 
after  a  plunge  down  the  hill.  Shade-trees  bordered 
the  avenue  upon  which  stood  pretty  bungalows.  There 
were  an  unusual  number  of  people  walking  and  riding; 
perhaps  because  of  Saturday,  or,  and  he  suddenly 
remembered,  because  the  Hillcrest  Hotel  was  to  be 
sold  at  public  auction  that  very  noon,  with  all  its  con 
tents.  Country  folk  are  keen  on  buying  something 
for  nothing.  Invern  flicked  golden-rod,  abhorred 
of  hay-fever  sufferers,  and  decided  to  go  with  the  crowd. 
But  first  I'll  stop  at  Zaneburg  and  get  a  drink  of  cider. 
Nothing  stronger  in  the  state;  indeed,  nothing  could 
be  stronger  than  New  Hampshire  cider.  He  was 
thirsty,  which  pleasant  condition  he  laughingly  set 
down  to  his  constellation;  he  had  been  born  under  the 
sign  of  Aquarius  the  Water-Carrier. 

He  entered  the  village  and  made  for  the  Inn  which 
bore  the  resounding  title:  At  the  Sign  of  the  Golden 
Buck.  He  had  hardly  reached  the  post-office,  also 
the  general  store,  when  noisy,  discordant  music  struck 
his  unwilling  ears.  A  critic  of  music,  once  upon  a 


40  PAINTED  VEILS 

time,  he  suffered  from  his  sensitive  hearing.  He 
averred  it  was  the  false  intonation  of  singers, 
whether  in  opera  or  concert  that  had  driven  him  from 
professional  criticism  into  the  theatre ;  from  the  frying- 
pan  into  the  fire,  he  lamented.  So  the  horrible  con 
glomeration  of  noises  which  assailed  his  tympani  set 
him  to  wondering — and  cursing.  There  were  the 
banging  of  big  drums,  tambourine  thumping,  tooting 
of  fifes  coupled  with  hideous  howling  without  tune 
or  rhythm;  just  the  howling  of  idiots  penned-up  behind 
bars,  or  the  screeching  of  hyenas  on  a  desert  plain 
beneath  the  rays  of  a  sultry  midnight  moon.  He  looked 
around  for  a  path  to  escape,  and  then  decided  to  see 
the  show — probably  some  circus.  A  crowd  had  quickly 
formed.  Borne  along  he  soon  saw  an  irregular  pro 
cession  chiefly  composed  of  women  dancing,  screaming, 
beating  tambourines.  Hysteria  was  in  the  air.  Two 
figures,  detached  from  the  others,  focussed  his  atten 
tion.  A  gigantic  noseless  negro  wearing  a  scarlet 
turban  and  dressed  in  a  gaudy  gown  like  a  woman's 
wrapper,  headed  the  throng.  His  big  eyes  rolled, 
and  at  intervals  he  emitted  a  roar  as  he  struck  an  exotic 
gong  with  a  hammer. 

"De  Holy  Yowlers  is  here !"  he  boomed  in  a  formidable 
basso.  "Welcome  de  Holy  Yowlers.  Services  at  de 
rotunda  in  ten  minutes.  Entrance  free.  Come  one, 
come  all.  Welcome  all.  Hear  de  Holy  Yowlers." 
A  young  woman  walking  behind  this  giant  and  carry 
ing  a  banner  shrieked:  "Holy  Yowlers.  Save  your 


PAINTED  VEILS  41 

dirty  souls.  Dance  into  paradise.  Holy  Yowlers." 
Her  pretty  eyes  were  bloodshot.  She  staggered  under 
the  grievous  burden.  Her  face  was  bloated  with  en 
thusiasm  as  she  cursed  the  evil  of  rum-drinking. 
The  Holy  Yowlers  was  a  prohibition  organization, 
evidently,  as  the  woman's  words  and  behaviour  in 
dicated.  Ulick  examined  her  with  curiosity.  Here's 
the  beginning  of  my  new  religion,  he  cogitated.  Lots 
of  noise,  a  few  incomprehensible  phrases,  plenty  of 
rum — and  it's  enough  to  start  anything  from  a  political 
party  to  the  second  advent  of  some  sheep-god.  I 
forgot  to  add  fornication.  The  twin  pillars  of  all 
religions  have  been,  still  are  and  ever  shall  be,  super 
stition  and  fornication;  faith  in  the  imbecile  doctrines 
and  fornication — else  the  membership  would  dwindle. 
His  reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  voice  that  whispered: 
"It's  Roarin'  Nell,  sartain.  She's  on  one  of  her  regular 
sprees.  Nuthin'  stops  her.  Just  look  at  that  big  nigger, 
how  he  handles  her.  He  ought  to  get  his  denied  ugly 
head  punched.  Nell  used  to  be  pretty.  Too  much 
rum  and  religion  got  the  best  of  her."  It  was  a  farm 
hand  who  spoke.  Ulick  asked  him  questions.  Nell 
joined  them.  She  planted  her  banner — blazoned  with 
the  device  of  a  cross  and  crescent  on  a  red  ground — 
the  initials  H.  Y. — before  him,  and  casually  remarked: 

"It's  as  hot  as  the  hinges  of  hell.  Buy  a  drink  for 
me  mister." 

"Surely,"  he  answered.  "I'm  going  to  the  Inn. 
Come  along."  She  held  back.  "They  wunt  be  selling 


42  PAINTED  VEILS 

me  any  drink.  I'm  forbidden."  "How  forbidden?" 
"Well,  see  here.  It's  this  way.  When  I  drink  I  don't 
know  when  to  stop — "  "Yes  stick  to  cider — *  She  burst 
into  hysterical  laughter.  "Cider?  That's  the  worst 
ever.  It's  a  temperance  drink,  too.  Them  teetotallers 
just  dote  on  cider."  The  procession  had  been  halted. 
The  coloured  person  had  temporarily  lost  his  zeal. 
Burning  sunrays  concentrated  on  his  woolly  skull. 
He  vaguely  passed  thick  fingers  across  his  blubber 
lips.  His  eyes  were  soft  and  appealing  as  he  gazed 
at  Ulick.  Roarin'  Nell  made  significant  motions. 
She  threw  back  her  head,  whose  shapeliness  was 
concealed  by  a  sunbonnet  and  placed  a  finger  on  her 
mouth.  The  thirst  was  in  her  and  had  insidiously 
attacked  the  citadel  of  the  invading  host.  Brother 
Rainbow  couldn't  get  any  further.  "Go  back  to  de 
rotunda!"  he  bellowed  to  the  faithful  disciples,  and 
as  he  once  more  struck  the  metallic  gong  he  added: 
"In  ten  minutes,  beloved  brethren,  de  Holy  Yowlers 
will  attack  de  rum-devil  and  put  him  to  flight."  "Come 
along,"  impatiently  cried  Ulick,  "I'm  dying  with  thirst." 
"Go  behind  the  barn,  we  can  get  what  we  want,"  cau 
tioned  Nell. 

Oblivious  to  criticism  the  trio  marched  to  a  road 
at  the  side  of  the  Inn  and  disappeared.  The  villagers 
winked  and  smiled.  The  motley  gang  of  worshippers 
dispersed  in  irregular  groups,  sloAvly  moving  toward 
the  rotunda,  an  ancient  wooden  structure  originally  des 
tined  to  house  circuses,  theatrical  companies,  musical 


PAINTED  VEILS  43 

festivals,  but  now  crowded  with  the  odds  and  ends  of 
agricultural  implements.  It  was  not  so  easy  to  get  the 
coveted  cider  at  the  Inn;  Invern  soon  found  that  out. 
The  landlord  was  in  a  rage  over  something.  To  the  re 
quest  of  the  young  man  he  snarled:  "Nary  a  drink 
for  Roarin'  Nell  or  for  that  dam  coon  of  hers.  I've 
been  warned  by  the  judge  over  at  Middletown.  You 
can  have  all  you  want,  not  a  drop  for  them  others." 
Invern  was  disconcerted.  He  was  thoroughly  interested 
in  his  companions  and  didn't  like  to  leave  them; 
besides,  he  determined  to  attend  their  service  and  see 
the  queer  brand  of  religion  they  would  serve.  A 
minute  or  two  had  shown  him  that  Brother  Rainbow 
was  not  a  fool;  rather,  a  cunning  imposter  glib  of 
speech.  He  didn't  bother  about  the  psychology  of 
Nell.  She  was  a  poor  deluded  drunken  creature  under 
the  control  of  this  monstrous  African.  He  irresolutely 
paused,  then  turned  his  back  on  the  churlish  inn 
keeper.  As  he  dawdled  across  to  the  barn,  where  his 
fellow-conspirators  waited,  he  was  dazzled  by  the  vision 
of  a  tall  beautiful  girl  in  white,  framed  by  an  old  New 
England  doorway,  clustered  with  honeysuckles.  "God !" 
he  ejaculated,  "where  did  that  dream  come  from?" 
He  rubbed  his  eyes,  but  the  dream  did  not  fade  from 
the  spot  of  blazing  sunshine  and  honeysuckles.  She 
beckoned  to  him:  "I  was  in  the  parlour,"  she  said  in 
contralto  tones  that  made  him  vibrate,  "and  I  heard 
how  the  old  humbug  lied  to  you.  Tell  your  friends  to 
come  right  in  here.  It's  my  room.  I  board  at  the  Inn. 


44  PAINTED  VEILS 

I'll  give  you  something  better  than  cider."  Hardly 
stopping  to  note  that  the  girl  was  dark  and  that  her 
smile  was  fascinating  Ulick  called  to  Brother  Rainbow 
and  Roarin'  Nell  and  introduced  them  as  he  inquisitive 
ly  regarded  the  new  hostess. 

"Names  don't  matter,"  she  declared.  "I'm  Miss 
Richmond."  "And  I'm  Mr.  Paris,"  added  Ulick,  using 
the  first  name  that  occurred  to  him.  She  bade  them 
be  seated  and  then  left  the  room.  Brother  Rainbow 
looked  mighty  solemn.  Nell  was  like  a  cat  in  a  strange 
cellar.  Her  roving  eyes  saw  the  flowers  in  the  window- 
box,  the  white  dimity  curtains,  the  few  scattered  fem 
inine  ornaments.  The  photograph  of  a  sweet-faced 
lady  was  on  the  bureau.  She  stared  at  it,  and  then, 
as  if  secretly,  drew  a  hand  across  her  eyes,  and  after 
ward  the  same  hand  across  her  mouth.  She  could 
have  wept  from  sentiment  and  her  tormenting  thirst. 
Invern  was  vastly  amused.  Firm  footsteps  announced 
the  return  of  the  young  woman.  She  was  flushed,  but 
triumphant.  "He  dared  to  refuse  me,  but  I  threatened 
to  leave.  I  pay  well.  This  is  supposed  to  be  the  best 
room  in  the  house,  so  here's  your  cider."  She  put 
down  the  tray  with  its  pitcher  and  glasses  and  went  to 
her  trunk.  "Here's  the  chaser."  She  held  out  a  large 
liquour  flask  for  their  astonished  inspection.  Ulick 
openly  admired  her,  and,  with  that  easy  Celtic  assur 
ance  of  his,  he  confessed  his  admiration. 

"I'm  a  Southerner,  born  and  bred  down  there," 
she  confided,  "I'm  not  ashamed  of  a  whisky-flask.  I 


PAINTED  VEILS  45 

never  drink.  It's  full,  as  you  see,  but  I  hate  good  folks 
like  you  to  go  dry.  Here's  to!"  She  poured  a  goodly 
drink  into  each  of  the  glasses,  except  her  own.  "I 
prefer  cider,"  she  explained.  They  drank  in  silence. 
The  cider  followed.  Nell  was  all  eyes.  Never  had  she 
been  so  close  to  such  a  lovely  woman.  Such  a  gown. 
Invern  thought  the  reverse.  A  pretty  girl,  but  hoper 
lessly  provincial.  Their  gaze  collided.  She  smiled. 
He  closed  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  have  seen  sparks. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  the  whisky.  Then  he  thought  of 
the  time.  He  consulted  his  watch.  "Hello  there 
Brother  Rainbow!  You're  twenty  minutes  late.  Let's 
go  to  the  rotunda.  Come  along,  do  Miss — Richmond? 
— I  think  we  shall  have  lots  of  fun."  She  nodded,  and 
carefully  locking  the  door  she  followed  the  others  into 
the  hot  sunlight.  Brother  Rainbow  again  sounded 
his  exotic  gong  as  he  shouted:  "De  Holy  Yowlers. 
We  fight  de  rum  devil!"  And  his  voice  was  more 
unctuous  and  appealing  than  before,  possibly  because 
the  whisky  hailed  from  Kentucky. 

In  single  file  they  entered  the  rotunda.  The  building 
was  not  crowded.  Although  midday  a  rusty  chandelier 
was  lighted.  The  Holy  Yowlers  believed  in  mystery. 
The  gas-jets  were  to  illuminate  the  collection  platter, 
nothing  more.  A  murmur  greeted  them  and  a  solitary 
female  voice  shrilled:  "He  comes.  The  High  Holiness 
comes.  Bless  the  name  of  the  Holy  Yowlers."  This 
signalled  an  outburst  of  yells  as  the  black  pontiff 
conducted  his  guests  to  the  platform  where  were 


46  PAINTED  VEILS 

several  wooden  benches  and  a  table.  After  looking  with 
unaffected  longing  at  the  white  girl,  who  mocked  him, 
Brother  Rainbow  struck  the  mystic  gong  and  ha 
rangued  his  flock.  "I'se  de  new  prophet  of  de  Lord. 
Who  follows  me  will  see  de  Lord.  Bless  de  name  of 
de  Holy  Yowlers.  Let  us  dance."  Instantly  the  audi 
ence  was  in  an  uproar.  The  howling  began.  Whirling 
in  pairs  or  alone,  men  and  women  behaved  as  if  pos 
sessed  by  devils.  Ulick  had  seen  camp-meeting  re 
vivals,  yet  they  were  a  mere  hymn  carnival  compared 
with  this  orgy  of  sound  and  motion.  And  as  a  Southern 
girl  the  sight  could  not  have  been  altogether  un 
familiar  to  his  companion,  who,  her  face  pale,  held 
his  arm  as  if  seeking  protection.  He  pressed  that  arm 
and  he  felt  the  pressure  returned.  Roarin'  Nell  lay 
outstretched  on  a  bench.  She  was  red  in  the  face,  her 
eyes  closed.  Brother  Rainbow  banged  his  gong,  his 
shrewd  eyes  showing  their  whites,  a  sinister  grin  on 
his  noseless  face. 

Suddenly  he  commanded:  "Lights  out!"  and  darkness 
supervened.  The  whirling  and  the  howling  ceased. 
Ulick  wras  pinioned  by  a  pair  of  arms,  violently  em 
braced  and  pushed  to  the  floor.  As  his  knees  gave 
way,  a  moaning  cry  in  his  ear  made  his  blood  freeze. 
He  tried  to  shake  off  the  importunate  lascivious 
embrace  of  a  woman.  In  vain.  The  moaning  ceased. 
From  the  pit  below  came  a  rutilant  groaning  and  sharp 
exclamations  of  pain  and  ecstasy.  Scrambling  to 
his  knees  Ulick  put  out  his  hands  and  seized  a  figure. 


PAINTED  VEILS  47 

It  relaxed  in  his  arms  and  then  came  in  stentorian 
tones:  "Lights!"  In  the  dim  atmosphere  he  saw  that 
he  held  a  fainting  woman,  Miss  Richmond.  Nell 
sprawled  on  the  floor  next  to  them  like  a  drunken 
drab:  "Get  us  out  of  here,  quick,  you  damned  scoundrel 
or  I'll  shoot  you  full  of  holes."  Ulick  made  a  move 
ment.  But  the  serenity  of  the  grand  Panjandrum  was 
undisturbed.  He  calmly  viewed  the  room  with  its 
recumbent  and  exhausted  men  and  women  and  slowly 
answered : 

"De  young  lady  will  be  all  right  in  a  moment.  She 
has  had  true  religion.  She  is  now  one  of  de  Holy 
Yowlers."  Outside  the  glaring  sunlight  stabbed  his 
eyeballs,  yet  it  seemed  a  black  sun.  Supporting  the 
limp  girl  he  set  her  at  the  edge  of  an  old  well  in  the 
yard.  The  dipper  was  in  the  bucket  and  he  scooped 
some  water  which  he  gave  her.  Her  olive  skin  was 
drawn  and  yellow,  her  lips  a  sanguinary  purple.  Her 
great  eyes  were  narrowed  to  slits  and  their  hazel  fire 
was  like  a  cat's  eyes  in  the  dark.  She  looked  straight 
in  front  of  her  as  if  she  were  watching  a  horrible  play. 
He  almost  felt  sorry  for  the  irreparable.  Was 
it  his  fault?  What  extraordinary  caprice  of  the  gods 
had  guided  his  footsteps  to  this  spot,  there  to  meet 
and  mingle  with  a  girl  he  had  never  seen  before  .  . 
and  then  the  devilish  whisky  .  .  .  did  they  know 
what  they  were  doing?  The  girl  stirred.  "Darling," 
he  whispered,  "it  can't  be  helped.  I  love  you.  Let's 
go  away  ...  to  New  York."  She  started  as  if 


48  PAINTED  VEILS 

stung.  "You  beast!  .  .  ."  she  cried,  and  "you 
beast!"  With  the  words  came  a  blow  in  the  face  that 
blinded  him  and  she  instantly  fled  away.  It  was  like  a 
bad  dream.  In  the  rotunda  the  Holy  Yowlers  were 
howling  their  pious  noise  punctured  by  the  gong-strokes 
of  Brother  Rainbow.  I've  witnessed  the  birth  of  a  new 
religion,  muttered  Ulick  Invern,  as  he  made  his  way 
across  the  low-lying  Franconian  hills,  misted  by  the 
approach  of  a  peaceful  September  evening  .  .  . 


THE  THIRD  GATE 

At  the  third  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;   he  took  off 
the  precious  stones  that  adorn  her  neck  .    .    . 


Alfred  Stone  spat  bitterly  on  the  floor  of  his  bed-room 
— which  was  also  his  living-room  and  library.  His 
cigarette  tasted  like  toasted  rag,  and  in  his  mouth  there 
was  scum.  Brown,  brown  and  yellow,  he  told  himself. 
This  boozing  till  all  hours  in  the  morning  must  be 
stopped.  A  hard  night  last  night  down  at  Liichow's, 
but  the  crowd  left  there  at  half  past  one  when  they 
couldn't  get  anything  more  and  went  over  to  Andy's 
on  Second  Avenue  and  played  poker-dice  till  six.  No 
wonder  I  feel  rotten,  said  Stone.  It  wras  past  midday. 
He  swallowed  a  cup  of  strong  tea  which  he  made  with 
trembling  hands.  He  had  a  concert  to  "cover,"  a 
concert  at  Mendelssohn  Hall,  but  first  he  must  go  to 
his  office  at  the  "Daily  Chanticleer."  He  looked  at 
his  image  in  the  glass.  His  skin  was  dingy,  discolored, 
his  eyes  unnaturally  dilated.  A  hard  night  and  a  hard 
face.  He  lighted  a  cigarette.  Tea  and  tobacco  soon 
steadied  his  nerves.  He  was  in  a  moody  humour. 
What's  the  use  of  anything?  was  its  keynote.  The 
bookmakers  had  hit  him  hard  the  day  before ;  hence  the 
drinking  bout  with  a  gang  of  chaps  for  whom  he  didn't 
care  a  rap.  Ulick  had  been  with  them  at  the  start,  had 
eaten  a  hearty  dinner,  but,  as  usual,  dodged  away  when 
the  heavy  drinking  began.  Smart  Ulick.  But  a  bloody 
blighter  when  it  came  to  sticking.  However,  I  can't 


52  PAINTED  VEILS 

blame  him,  philosophically  added  Stone.  Ulick 
doesn't  drink  or  smoke.  Why  should  he  tag  after  a 
band  of  thirsty  ruffians  like  ours.  He's  girl-mad,  that's 
what  he  is.  And  why  the  sudden  interest  in  Easter 
Brandes? 

Her  name  gave  him  a  new  point  of  departure.  That 
young  woman  was  too  shrewd  by  half.  Too  ambitious, 
uncannily  so.  The  soul  of  a  pawnbroker,  he  had  accused 
her  of  having.  Young,  not  bad  looking — he  was  critical 
this  day — but  coldly  selfish;  what's  worse,  she  didn't 
mind  letting  you  see  how  indifferent  she  was. 

She  would  make  a  man  run  himself  to  death  and  take 
it  for  granted.  But  he  was  through.  I  bring  her  to  the 
Cosmopolitaine,  introduce  her  to  the  right  set,  and  she 
seems  to  think  it  only  natural.  Not  a  word  of  thanks, 
if  you  please.  She  doesn't  mind  that  stinker  Lapoul 
messing  over  her,  never  turns  a  hair.  And  yesterday  I 
take  her  to  Ash,  and  because  she  hears  some  wholesome 
truths  she  vents  her  spite  on  me  at  dinner  last  night. 
What  do  you  think  of  it?  In  the  violence  of  his  out 
raged  dignity  Stone  left  the  table  and  sauntered  to  the 
window.  Ugh!  he  groaned.  It  was  raining  and  the 
prospect  of  going  out  to  listen  to  a  dull  piano-recital — 
or  was  it  some  screecher  of  a  soprano — gave  him  the 
blues  worse  than  ever.  What  a  rotten  life,  he  meditated. 
I  feel  like  a  chicken  with  the  pip.  Oh,  Lord,  how  long? 
Well,  Frida  Ash,  the  good  old  girl,  certainly  did  lay 
down  the  law  to  Easter.  A  promising  career.  But 
work,  work  like  a  galley-slave  for  at  least  four  years; 


PAINTED  VEILS  53 

maybe  five.  I'll  do  it,  cries  Easter.  A  bargain,  says 
Frida.  Easter  gets  two  or  three  lessons  a  week  and  in 
return  is  to  be  accompanist  for  Ash.  That's  a  nice  job, 
I  don't  think.  Play  accompaniments  all  day  for  a  set 
of  imbecile  amateurs.  But  what  can  she  do?  She  has 
no  money.  She  is  too  chilly  to  earn  any  by  approved 
horizontal  methods. 

He  puffed  a  fresh  cigarette.  Am  I  fond  of  the  girl? 
he  asked  himself.  No,  not  by  a  long  shot,  but  she  will  be 
a  fine  morsel  for  some  lucky  chap — with  money.  Oh 
yes  lashins'  and  lavins'  of  money  she'll  want.  What  a 
curious  bird  she  is,  just  like  Invern.  She  tried  to  pump 
me  about  him.  Is  she  mashed  on  him?  Who  knows? 
I  fancy  the  lady  didn't  much  like  vacating  his  rooms. 
She  asked  me,  with  such  a  funny  look  in  her  eye :  "How 
is  it  your  friend  is  in  town,  lecturing  at  the  Conserva 
toire,  and  all  that.  Yet  he  doesn't  live  in  his  own  apart 
ment?"  And  what  a  thunder-cloud  expression  she  wore 
when  I  carelessly  explained:  "Oh  you  must  know,  Ulick 
is  a  bit  of  a  runabout.  I  suppose  he  has  something  new 
on  his  staff.  He  usually  disappears  at  such  times,  till 
the  period  of  disillusionment;  then  he  returns  to  the 
home-nest,  pale  but  pious.  He's  a  queer  bird  also,  is 
Ulick."  Aha !  the  girl  positively  became  discontented.  I 
have  to  laugh.  No,  she  won't  do  for  me.  Her  eyes  are 
too  secret,  too  calculating,  and  her  ears  too  tiny — but 
they  are  pretty  ears  all  the  same.  Heigho!  I'll  dress 
and  go  to  my  little  hell  hall.  The  man  who  invented 
musical  criticism  should  have  been  evirated.  Ha! 


54  PAINTED  VEILS 

that's  a  good  word,  evirated!  I'll  use  it  in  my  notice 
tomorrow.  Herr  Slopstein  should  be  evirated  for  the 
manner  in  which  he  played  Beethoven. 


II 

The  huge  auditorium  was  in  twilight;  with  difficulty 
could  be  discerned  a  few  isolated  groups.  The  high 
light  was  in  the  orchestral  pit  full  of  chatting  men. 
Seidl  had  not  yet  appeared.  A  punctual  conductor; 
he  must  have  been  detained  this  morning  and  the 
rehearsal  had  run  on  a  snag.  In  the  tepid  atmosphere, 
Easter,  her  eyes  greedy  for  the  forthcoming  spectacle, 
a  novel  one  to  her,  sat  with  Stone.  As  critic  of  a  power 
ful  morning  newspaper  he  had  the  privilege  of  bringing 
friends  to  any  rehearsal  he  wished.  This  particular 
affair  promised  to  be  peculiarly  interesting.  Lilli 
Lehmann,  the  divine  Lilli,  Stone  called  her,  Jean  and 
Edouard  de  Reszke,  Marie  Brema,  Anton  Van  Rooy— 
what  a  Tristan  and  Isolde  cast,  with  Anton  Seidl  at  the 
conductor's  helm!  Easter  had  never  heard  Tristan 
sung;  she  knew  the  vocal  score,  and  in  Washington  had 
with  beating  heart  listened  to  an  orchestra  under  Seidl 
play  a  long  Wagner  programme.  She  became  a  Wag- 
nerian  in  a  moment.  No  music  before  this  had  narco 
tized  her  senses,  lapped  her  soul  into  bliss,  hypnotized 
her  faculty  of  attention  until  her  consciousness  had 
swooned.  Already  she  had  battle  royals  daily  with 
Madame  Ash  who  tried  to  make  this  too  strenuous 


PAINTED  VEILS  55 

pupil  see  that  the  royal  road  to  a  comprehension  of 
Wagner  was  through  the  music  of  the  classics:  of 
Bach,  of  Beethoven,  above  all,  of  Mozart  music.  "My 
dear,"  admonished  the  wise  teacher,  "you  will  never  be 
anything  but  a  sloppy  amateur  if  you  begin  with  Wag 
ner.  Read  him.  That's  all.  Just  read  him,  and  you 
may  realize  that  he  knew  what  he  was  writing  about 
when  he  lays  stress  on  the  old  Italian  school  of  bel-canto. 
Those  yelling  hausfraus  and  bier-bassos — what  do  they 
know  of  the  real  Wagner  melos?  Rien!  Nichts! 
Niente!  Nothing!  Go,  if  you  get  a  chance,  and  hear 
Lilli  Lehmann,  even  Nordica,  who  is  a  child  compared  to 
Lilli ;  both  women  know  how  to  sing  legato,  both  have 
studied  the  lieder  of  Schubert,  Schumann,  Brahms. 
Both  began  as  coloratura  singers.  What — you  don't 
know  that  Lehmann  has  sung  the  Queen  in  Hugue 
nots,  Filina  in  Mignon?  The  fact  is  Esther — drop 
that  silly  nickname  of  Easter — you  are  like  the  majority 
of  American  girls.  You  know  it  all  in  advance.  You 
want  to  sing  Isolde  before  you  can  sing  Buttercup. 
Listen  to  Jean  de  Reszke.  No,  he  is  more  barytone  than 
tenor — that's  why  I  like  him.  Those  tenors,  Italian 
or  German,  they  make  me  sick.  They  give  me  nausea 
with  their  throaty  voices.  Only  unmusical  people 
admire  tenors.  Do  you  know  that?" 

But  Easter  was  refractory.  She  liked  the  tenor  voice, 
and,  notwithstanding  the  fulness  and  richness  of  her 
middle  and  lower  registers,  she  preferred  her  fluty 
upper  tones.  Madame  Ash  was  pleased  with  the  voice 


56  PAINTED  VEILS 

and  told  Stone  that  in  two  years  she  would  have  the 
girl  in  the  concert-room.  A  wonderful  talent,  a  wonder 
ful  personality,  hard  as  nails,  and  all  the  better  for  it. 
She  would  keep  off  the  men,  with  that  cold  eye.  But 
when  she  does  break  loose — Grand  Dieu !  The  madame 
comfortably  shivered.  She  was  not  averse  from  hearing 
about  exciting  scandals — if  they  didn't  happen  in 
her  own  vocal  family.  Easter  was  more  than  promising 
material.  The  kind-hearted  teacher  and  manufacturer 
of  prima-donnas,  as  she  merrily  christened  herself,  was 
interested  in  the  strange  girl  Alfred  Stone  had  brought 
to  her  for  judgment.  She  also  wondered  at  his  notice 
able  interest,  for  she  knew  him  as  a  celibate,  a  woman- 
hater,  rather  say,  a  despiser  of  the  cloven  sex.  She  had 
persuaded  him,  without  much  trouble,  to  invite  Easter 
to  a  full-dress  rehearsal  at  the  Opera.  The  girl  couldn't 
afford  to  pay  for  a  seat.  This  he  had  done  and  now 
Easter  was  in  the  sixth  heaven  of  anticipation. 

At  half-past  ten  Frau  Seidl  telephoned  the  director 
that  his  assistant-conductor  was  to  go  ahead  with  the 
first  act,  which  had  been  rehearsed  by  him  the  week  be 
fore.  He  was  ill  but  would  be  down  at  midday.  There 
was  some  gutteral  cursing,  it  stopped  when  the  first 
enigmatic  bars  welled-up  from  the  mystic  abyss. 
Easter,  her  eyes  closed,  her  face  flushed,  swam  out  on  the 
muffled  ecstasy  of  the  prelude.  The  curtain  rose. 
Soon  Lilli  passionately  broke  hi  upon  the  song  of  the 
seaman,  and  the  glorious  symphony  of  human  desire 
and  renunciation  went  swirling  by.  The  singers  were 


PAINTED  VEILS  57 

in  costume.  Jean,  warrior  and  lover,  met  his  Isolde  in 
the  shock  of  passion  and  remorse,  but  did  not  flinch 
at  the  climax.  Van  Rooy  and  Brema  were  in  the  mood- 
key.  At  moments  Easter  thought  she  couldn't  longer 
stand  the  suspense.  She  wished  to  cry,  to  roll  on  the 
floor,  to  tear  her  hair,  to  press  her  aching  eyeballs  till 
they  fell  out.  She  was  in  the  centre  of  an  emotional 
typhoon.  Her  previous  life  shrivelled  up  like  a  scroll  in 
the  clear  flame  of  the  mighty  master  of  musical  elixirs. 
Love  and  Death  and  Death  and  Love.  First  Things 
and  Last.  She  was  shocked  and  angered  at  Stone's 
commentary  after  the  curtain  had  fallen,  and  the  sparse 
ly  scattered  auditory  busily  buzzing. 

"Like  the  caterwauling  of  erotic  cats  on  a  midnight 
roof,"  said  he.  "Brute!"  she  murmured,  but  he  over 
heard.  "Brute  or  no  brute,  this  ocean  of  sentiment  over 
a  pint  of  catnip — was  it  worth  the  infinite  bother  Wag 
ner  gave  himself  to  deliver  a  mouse  from  the  belching 
volcano?"  "It's  a  mouse  now,"  she  tartly  replied, 
"before  it  was  a  tomcat.  I  admire  your  similes."  "It 
doesn't  matter  much  to  me  whether  you  do  or  do  not." 
He  was  quite  acid.  "You  don't  know  anything,  while  I've 
been  listening  to  Tristan  for  years."  "Why  be  cynical, 
even  if  you  have  heard  it  so  often?  It's  a  masterpiece 
among  masterpieces" — she  paused,  breathless.  "And 
I  imagine,"  he  continued,  "you  expect  to  sing  Isolde 
some  day  better  than  Lilli."  "I  do,  and  if  not  better, 
that  would  be  nearly  an  impossibility,  at  least  I'll  be 
a  younger  Irish  Princess,"  she  announced  with  the 


58  PAINTED  VEILS 

unconscious  cruelty  of  youth.  "But  I'll  first  begin  with 
Brangaene.  That  role  I  can  easily  better.  Have 
patience  and  you  will  see  my  beautiful  young  witch 
Brangaene.  She  isn't  supposed  to  be  ugly  and  old." 
"What's  this?"  he  exclaimed,  "already  a  Wagnerian 
critic?"  Then,  suddenly,  "Hello!  You  here?"  He 
squeezed  her  elbow,  and  she  saw  standing  before  her  in 
the  next  row  a  vaguely  familiar  figure,  but  the  dim  light 
puzzled  her  as  to  the  person. 

"Hullo !"  came  the  answer.  "Alfred,  how  did  you  get 
home  the  other  night?  I  saw  you  were  in  for  a  wet  time 
and  I  skipped."  He  looked  inquiringly  at  the  young 
woman.  Stone  apologized.  "Oh,  I  fancied  that  living 
in  the  same  hotel  you  had  met.  Miss  Brandes,  this 
is  my  very  good  friend,  Mr.  Invern.  Ulick,  this  is  the 
coming  Lilli  Lehmann.  Miss  Brandes  is  a  pupil  of 
Madame  Ash,  who  predicts  a  big  future.  Funny,  Miss 
Easter  occupied  your  apartment  for  a  few  days."  "Yes, 
Madame  Felice  told  me.  I  am  very  glad  you  did,  Miss 
— Miss — Brandes.  What  a  picturesque  name  for  the 
operatic  stage?  The  only  Marthe  Brandes  in  Paris  may 
be  jealous.  Aren't  you  from  the  South,  from  Richmond 
— Miss  Brandes?"  He  had  seated  himself  and  was 
gazing  at  her,  she  had  herself  well  in  hand,  but  her 
stomach  trembled  as  if  sea-sick.  She  grasped  the 
velvet  arm  of  her  stall  and  tried  to  keep  her  voice 
steady  as  she  replied: 

"Yes,  I'm  from  Richmond.  I  was  born  in  Virginia. 
Why  do  you  ask?  Is  my  accent  so  marked?"  She  had  a 


PAINTED  VEILS  59 

good  central  grip  on  herself  and  presently  the  vibrations 
ceased.  Stone  was  bored  and  yearned  for  a  cigarette. 
"I  see  Seidl — I'll  go  out  for  a  smoke."  At  once  Ulick 
seated  himself  beside  Easter.  Eagerly  he  attempted 
to  take  the  gloved  hand  next  to  him.  She  crossed  her 
arms.  Then  she  said  in  commonplace  tones :  "Do  you 
know,  Mr.  Invern — I  don't  miss  that  lovely  apartment. 
They  put  me  on  the  third  floor.  I  am  away  from  the 
noisy  kitchen  and  I  can  catch  a  bit  of  the  sky  instead  of 
that  depressing  brick  wall — '  He  whispered,  and  his 
voice  was  hoarse,  as  if  from  excess  of  feeling:  "How  can 
you  ever  forgive  me — ever  forgive  me — Miss  Rich 
mond — pardon  me,  that  was  your  name — down  East, 
in  New  Hampshire  .  .  ."  Easter  seemed  to  see 
smoke.  She  didn't  answer  him.  Then,  in  her  broadest 
most  cordial  Southern  tones,  she  asked:  "Whatever* 
in  the  world  are  you  talking  about,  mister?"  He 
thought:  I'm  on  the  wrong  tack.  She  won't  acknowl 
edge  that  we  met — and  what  a  meeting — but,  wait, 
I'll  make  her  acknowledge — everything.  She  went 
on  in  her  desultory  conversational  manner:  "I  was 
reared  in  Richmond.  That's  not  my  name.  What  did 
Mr.  Stone  call  you?" 

He  was  nettled.  Absurd.  As  if  she  could  pull  the 
wool  over  his  eyes,  those  clear  piercing  blue  eyes  that 
looked  at  life  so  amusedly,  so  cynically.  Then  Seidl 
rapped  for  silence  and  the  curtain  rose  on  the  love- 
scene  of  all  musical  love-scenes. 


60  PAINTED  VEILS 

As  she  watched  the  gothic  head  of  Seidl  she  thought 
of  him  as  a  magician  whose  wand  evoked  magic  spells, 
but  soon  she  forgot  Time  and  Space  and  was  living  in 
that  enchanting  fairyland  of  high  daring  and  passion 
transfigured.  The  deep  voice  of  Brangaene  warned  the 
lovers.  Tremulous  horns  told  of  the  King's  return. 
Edouard  de  Reszke  intoned  his:  "Tristan!"  in  the 
inflexions  of  which  are  compressed  the  reproach  of 
betrayed  friendship,  and  chivalry  that  has  vanished. 
Passion — passion,  the  yearnings  of  the  man  for  the 
woman,  and  the  desire  of  the  woman  for  the  desire  of  the 
man,  had  summarily  abolished  the  walls  of  duty,  of 
earthy  morals.  A  hand  slipped  into  hers.  She  did  not 
resist  and  the  hand  was  hungrily  held.  The  spell  was 
upon  her.  Music,  the  most  sensual  of  the  arts,  for  it 
tells  us  of  the  hidden  secrets  of  sex,  immersed  her  body 
and  soul  in  a  magnetic  bath;  the  sound-fluid  entered 
the  porches  of  her  ears.  She  was  as  a  slave  manacled 
within  the  chalked  circle  of  a  wizard.  To  step  across  the 
line  would  have  been  an  ineluctable  attempt.  She  did 
not  try.  And  to  make  more  concrete  the  illusion  of  a 
consciousness  transposed  from  the  key  of  her  everyday 
life,  the  embracement  of  her  arm  by  this  strange  man — 
wasn't  he  a  stranger  to  her? — sent  her  spirit  cowering 
into  supernatural  coverts.  What  was  she?  What  was 
he?  Tristan  and  Isolde;  Isolde  and  Tristan.  She  iden 
tified  herself  with  the  lovers,  who,  like  the  crepuscular 
figures  stitched  on  some  mediaeval  tapestry,  dreamily 
moved  across  the  field  of  her  vision.  Tristan  fell,  and 


PAINTED  VEILS  61 

Easter  awoke  with  a  start.  Where  has  that  little  wretch 
Stone  gone?  The  sneak,  she  thought.  Withdrawing  her 
arm  she  stood  up  with  a  sigh  of  delight  satisfied.  The 
lights  were  now  on.  The  small  but  select  band  of 
invited  guests,  were  shaking  hands  with  dear  Maurice 
Grau,  and  she  wondered  who  was  the  affable  little 
bald-headed  man. 

Ulick  quizzically  took  her  in.  He  hesitated:  "Come," 
he  finally  said,  "come  with  me.  Fll  introduce  you  to 
my  beloved  friend,  grand  woman  and  artiste,  Madame 
Lehmann.  She  may  be  of  use  to  you  in  the  future." 
For  the  first  time  Easter  felt  as  if  he  were  really  a  friend. 
Her  chilly  reserve  couldn't  withstand  such  an  invitation. 
Lilli  Lehmann!  And  perhaps — Oh!  if  it  would  only 
come  true — Jean  de  Reszke.  As  she  was  conducted 
upstairs  through  resounding  corridors,  her  dreams  went 
on  wings  to  the  glorious  night  when  she,  Esther  Brandes, 
would  hold  an  audience  spellbound  by  the  imperious 
magic  of  her  art.  Flushed,  her  nature  sending  out  warm 
rays  of  happiness,  Ulick  was  so  carried  away  that  he 
put  his  arm  around  her  waist  and  cried:  "You  adorable 
girl  .  .  ."  She  it  was  who  knocked  at  the  dressing- 
room  door  for  admittance.  "Kopim,"  was  uttered  by  a 
deep  voice  within.  The  youthful  pair  entered.  .  . 

On  the  way  to  the  Maison  Felice  she  complained  of 
hunger.  "It's  the  emotions  of  a  first  Tristan,"  he  told 
her.  "Wagner  exhausts  one's  soul  and  stomach.  As  for 
Tristan — oh!  Tristan  is  a  regular  tapeworm.  I 
always  feel  like  a  spaghetti  dinner  at  Moretti's  with 


62  PAINTED  VEILS 

gallons  of  vichy."  She  looked  down  at  him,  he  was 
standing  in  the  street,  she  on  the  sidewalk.  His  eyes 
were  blazing  blue.  She  had  realized  their  blueness  even 
in  the  dark  of  the  auditorium.  The  glance-motive 
sounded  in  their  personal  music-drama.  And,  as  he 
said  to  himself,  with  what  a  prelude!  Almost  tragic. 
She  still  gazed  at  him.  Ulick  felt  his  being  expand. 
This  girl  was  dangerous.  She  was  different.  He  knew 
he  must  love  her  and  he  trembled  at  her  hungry  eyes. 
"Let's  go  to  your  Moretti's,"  she  exclaimed.  "I'm 
starving."  "So  am  I — for  another  touch  of  your  hand," 
he  interposed.  "Let's  go  to  your  Moretti's,"  she  stub 
bornly  repeated,  "and  if  you  wish  to  keep  on  good 
terms  with  me  pray  don't  call  me  Miss  Richmond, 
or — 'your  adorable  girl'  .  .  ."  He  only  ejaculated, 

"Christ!" 

*  *  * 

III 

After  their  luncheon  Easter  went  to  Ash's  for  a  les 
son;  also  to  pour  into  the  sympathetic  ear  of  Madame 
her  impressions  of  the  rehearsal;  like  the  egotist 
she  was,  these  personal  impressions  were  intrinsically 
of  more  importance  to  her  than  the  music  or  the 
singing.  Ulick  had  left  her,  promising  himself  to  see 
her  at  dinner  that  evening;  he  didn't  propose  to  let 
Stone  altogether  monopolize  her;  but  he  couldn't  be 
jealous  of  anybody  much  less  of  little  Alfred  Stone.  It 
was  a  temperamental  defect  and  he  recognized  it.  Never 


PAINTED  VEILS  63 

to  be  jealous  implied  either  supreme  self-satisfaction  or 
blunt  indifference — which  is  worse  than  the  rankest 
egotism.  As  he  rode  down  town  on  the  Third  Avenue 
"L"  to  the  office  of  the  "Clarion,"  he  recalled  the  gracious 
reception  of  Easter  by  the  great  Isolde;  Lilli  had  been 
unusually  amiable.  Was  it  because  Paul  Godard  was 
in  her  dressing-room?  Ulick  detested  Paul,  though 
calmly.  That  young  millionaire  sprig,  who  dabbled  in 
music  as  he  did  in  stocks  and  society,  went  everywhere. 
At  Baireuth  Ulick  had  dodged  his  company.  Paul  was 
so  complacently  conscious  of  himself  that  he  irritated 
Ulick.  And  his  dilettante  attitude  toward  life  and 
the  Seven  Arts  was  intolerable  to  Invern,  who,  not 
withstanding  his  philosophy  of  laissez-faire,  was  a 
sincere  student,  one  who  despised  the  slipshod  method 
and  smattering  of  knowledge,  the  vice  of  the  other 
young  man. 

Godard  never  noticed  Ulick's  reserved  manner.  He 
bubbled  over  when  he  met  the  critic  as  he  bubbled  over 
Lilli's  Isolde,  as  he  bubbled  over  Otero's  dancing  at 
Koster  and  Bial's.  Paul  admired  all  manifestations  a 
la  mode.  His  judgments  were  Mr.  Everyman's.  In 
the  same  breath  he  could  praise  Degas  and  Meissonier, 
Meyerbeer  and  Debussy.  The  absence  of  discrimi 
nating  values  in  his  conversation  would  send  Ulick 
into  a  cold  rage.  He  didn't  like  Paul's  openly  expressed 
admiration  of  Easter.  Madame  Lehmann  had  ques 
tioned  her  as  to  her  plans,  and,  unasked,  Paul  had  made 
some  suggestions.  "Now,  there's  Trabadello  in  Paris. 


64  PAINTED  VEILS 

I  fancy  he  is  the  man  for  you.  Or  Mathilde  Marches!." 
What  infernal  impudence,  thought  Ulick.  A  stranger 
butting  in  like  that.  Lehmann,  hearing  the  name  of 
Frida  Ash,  approved,  adding,  "But  my  dear  young  lady, 
you  musn't  stay  in  New  York  too  long.  Your  formative 
years  should  be  spent  in  Europe,  in  Paris,  in  Berlin,  in 
Milan.  Some  day  you  should  try  to  sing  at  Baireuth 
if  only  the  humblest  roles.  You  know  that  I  was  one 
of  the  Rhine-Daughters  there  at  the  first  performance 
of  the  Ring  in  1876.  But  if  you  go  to  Germany  next 
Summer  come  to  see  me.  Perhaps — if  your  voice — 
you  have  an  excellent  stage  presence — who  knows?" 
Paul  Godard  became  ecstatic.  "Ah,  who  knows?"  he 
echoed  like  a  parrot — so  Ulick  called  him;  "lucky  Miss 
Brandes — Oh,  I  wonder  if  you  are  any  relative  of  the 
divine  Marthe — "  "There  he  goes  again  with  that 
damfool  question,"  said  Ulick  to  himself.  "She  ought 
to  change  her  name."  As  they  went  away  Ulick  over 
heard  Lilli  say:  "Yes,  very  effective.  Cold  tempera 
ment.  Brilliant,  but  hard.  She  will  push  herself." 
He  quickly  glanced  at  the  girl,  who  acted  as  if  she 
hadn't  heard  this  frank  criticism.  The  enthusiasm 
which  was  like  a  halo  when  she  had  entered  the  presence 
of  La  Diva  had  quite  disappeared.  She  was  composed 
when  she  parted,  after  thanking  Madame  Lehmann  for 
her  kindness.  Then  and  there  Ulick  made  note  that 
whenever  anyone  was  polite  to  Easter  she  assumed  a 
patronizing  air.  You  can't  have  too  much  pride, 
advises  Nietzsche.  Ulick  doubted  the  soundness  of 


PAINTED  VEILS  65 

this  axiom.    Decidedly,  Easter  was  too  self-confident, 
too  conceited,  and  pride  goeth  before  a  fall. 

To  his  disappointment,  when  they  were  in  the  street, 
she  began  asking  questions  about  Godard.  Ulick  had 
hoped  she  would  be  overwhelmed  by  the  unexpected 
reception  accorded  her  by  Lehmann.  She  did  not  refer 
to  the  singer  except  to  call  her  "a  nice  but  condescending 
old  lady."  Paul  Godard  was  another  matter.  Was  he 
rich?  Wasn't  he  handsome,  a  fascinating  young  man, 
and  so  witty,  wise  and  helpful!  Didn't  Ulick  notice 
how  sensible  were  his  suggestions?  WTio  is  Trabadello? 
Does  he  teach  Wagner  roles?  Marchesi  can't.  She's 
for  such  ornamental  singers  as  Melba  and  Eames. 
That  sort  of  singing  didn't  interest  her.  Flute-playing 
— nothing  stirring  or  dramatic.  She  meant  to  be  a 
Wagner  singer,  an  extraordinary  Isolde  and  Brunnhilde. 
Keep  your  Marguerites,  your  Gildas,  Juliettes,  yes, 
even  your  Carmens.  I  must  conquer  Wagner,  she 
triumphantly  asserted.  Ulick  exploded.  Possibly  the 
allusions  to  Godard  got  on  his  nerves,  anyhow,  it  was 
the  proper  time  to  put  this  braggart  in  her  place.  "You 
and  your  Wagner,"  he  testily  exclaimed.  "Are  you  so 
silly  and  ignorant  as  to  fancy  that  you  can  step  out  of 
Madame  Ash's  solfeggi  class  straight  to  the  footlights? 
You  are  enormously  ignorant — don't  interrupt  me. 
Frida  has  told  me.  Your  voice  is  remarkable,  and  so  is 
your  musical  memory.  But  you  have  no  style,  no 
personality — yes,  don't  get  angry,  Easter" — he  paused, 
but  her  face  was  averted,  and  he  couldn't  tell  if  she 


66  PAINTED  VEILS 

were  angry  at  the  familiar  address — "personality,  I 
mean  in  your  art;  you  have  enough  in  life,  too  much," 
he  ventured.  She  didn't  reply  and  then  they  had  gone 
to  Moretti's.  When  they  parted  she  seemed  in  good 
humour. 

But  as  she  strolled  up  Irving  Place  en  route  to  her 
lesson  her  expression  was  far  from  contented.  He  had 
scratched  her  vanity  and  she  felt  unforgiving.  What  was 
Ulick  to  her?  He  wasn't  a  music-critic,  he  wouldn't 
be  so  useful  as  Stone.  Yet,  he  had  a  lot  of  influence. 
She  could  see  that,  and  then  hadn't  he  brought  her  to 
Lilli  and  mightn't  that  meeting  decide  her  artistic  fate? 
She  made  up  her  mind  that  it  should.  Already  New 
York  was  a  drag  on  her  spirit  and  she  a  resident  only  a 
few  weeks.  No,  she  would  follow  Lilli  to  Berlin  and 
study  with  her  no  matter  what  Ulick,  or  Stone,  or  Ash 
said  to  the  contrary.  And  the  money?  Where  in  the 
world  was  it  to  come  from?  She  calmly  turned  over 
in  her  mind  the  possibilities  of  Paul  Godard.  That 
wouldn't  do,  she  decided,  and  rejected  the  idea,  not 
however  because  of  its  inherent  immorality.  She 
began  thinking  of  Allie  Wentworth  and  her  set.  Allie 
was  an  Ash  pupil  and  Easter  played  her  accompani 
ments.  An  intimacy  ensued.  Allie  was  an  heiress. 
Old  Wentworth  was  the  Olive-Oil  King,  or  some  such 
idiotic  title,  and  he  had  money  to  burn,  Easter  reflected. 
There  might  be  something  in  that  direction.  Paul  was 
nice,  his  eyes  had  measured  every  inch  of  her,  and 
those  eyes  had  eloquently  related  their  admiration. 


PAINTED  VEILS  67 

What  if  she  played  for  a  bigger  stake?  this  notion  she 
also  reflected  as  improbable  of  execution;  besides,  she 
would' never  marry.  Marriage.  Stupid  slavery  for  an 
ambitious  woman.  .  .  Her  thought  poised  lightly 
on  Ulick  and  despite  herself  she  coloured  .  .  .  he  is  a 
charming  boy,  but  so  self-opinionated.  She  was  late  and 
had  to  mollify  Madame  Frida.  Luckily  the  pupil  she 
had  kept  waiting  was  Miss  Went  worth.  She  chatted 
with  her  at  the  end  of  the  lesson.  Allie  was  a  masculine 
creature,  who  affected  a  mannish  cut  of  clothes.  She 
wore  her  hair  closely  cut  and  sported  a  hooked  walking 
stick.  Her  stride  and  bearing  intrigued  Easter,  who 
had  never  seen  that  sort  before.  All  of  Wentworth's 
friends  were  of  the  sporting  order.  All  smoked,  and, 
a  shocking  deviation  from  the  conventionality  of  that 
time,  they  drove  their  own  motor-cars.  Easter  thought 
them  rather  free  in  their  speech,  and  too  familiar. 
Allie  was  always  hugging  her  when  alone.  She  drank 
liqueurs  with  her  coffee  and  wasn't  ashamed  to  avow 
the  habit.  She  invited  Easter  to  visit  her  and  Madame 
Frida  gave  her  consent.  They  are  immensely  wealthy, 
she  confided  to  her  pupil  and  may  be  of  use  to  you  some 
day.  Allie  is  a  crazy-cat  but  a  jolly  girl. 

When  Easter  told  her  of  Lehmann's  suggestion  Ma 
dame  was  amazed.  "What!  You  a  chit  who  only  have  a 
a  voice  and  a  pretty  face  to  go  to  Lehmann  before  you 
know  how  to  sing?  If  Lilli  heard  you  once  she  wouldn't 
be  so  generous  with  her  invitation.  Why,  child,  you 
must  stay  with  me  two  or  three  years,  then  it  may 


68  PAINTED  VEILS 

be  time  to  think  of  Isolde.  Lilli  and  her  Grunewald 
villa!"  Easter  drawled  out  that  she  proposed  singing 
for  Lehmann  after  the  Christmas  holidays  so  that  Lilli 
wouldn't  be  buying  a  pig  in  a  poke.  Again,  consterna 
tion  on  the  part  of  Ash.  Well,  if  you  sing  for  Lilli 
suppose  we  get  to  work  on  some  Bach.  Easter  loathed 
Bach,  although  she  knew  that  his  music  was  necessary 
to  the  formation  of  a  sound  vocal  style.  So  she  didn't 
demur,  and  presently  she  was  delivering  an  old  chorale, 
accompanying  herself,  and  singing  with  such  tonal 
richness  and  exaltation  of  feeling  that  the  tears  came 
unbidden  to  the  eyes  of  the  veteran  teacher.  After 
wards  she  told  Stone  that  the  girl  was  a  torment  but — a 
genius.  Yes,  the  word  was  spoken.  Why,  she  eats  the 
words  out  of  my  mouth,  cried  Madame  Frida.  She 
anticipates  me.  Conceited?  Yes.  She  has  a  good 
right  to  be.  At  the  present  rate — she  will  be  singing 
Wagner  in  a  couple  of  years. . .  Alfred,  you  think  she  has 
no  temperament?  She  is  bursting  with  it.  When  she 
kicks  over  the  traces,  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  in  the  coach 
behind.  But  sly — selfishly  sly.  After  this  psychological 
diagnosis  Madame  emitted  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

IV 

Stone  still  stuck  to  his  post  as  vis-a-vis  to  Easter  at 
dinner.  But  since  the  return  of  Ulick  the  table  was  too 
small  for  three,  and,  as  Ulick  couldn't  very  well  be 
shaken  off  by  Stone — who  faintly  hoped  that  Easter 


PAINTED  VEILS  69 

entertained  the  same  idea — they  had  asked  Papa  Felic6 
for  a  larger  table  and  were  given  a  round  one  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  The  Felices  were  glad  to  see  that 
the  men  were  beginning  to  cluster  about  the  Southern 
girl.  As  long  as  proprieties  were  outwardly  observed  no 
questions  were  asked  in  the  Maison;  they  might  have 
proved  awkward.  Wedding  rings  did  not  abound  there, 
yet  what  a  delightful  oasis  it  was  in  the  big,  noisy  city. 
A  good  dinner,  cooked  by  an  Alsatian  chef,  excellent 
wines,  if  you  cared  to  order  them,  and  a  nice  tight  little 
game  till  any  hour  you  cared  to  lose  your  money; 
it  was  a  proverb  in  the  Maison  that  Yankee  guile,  no 
matter  the  cards,  could  not  prevail  against  the  skill 
of  the  patron  and  his  urbane  wife.  In  sooth,  it  seldom 
did.  Stone  played  when  in  funds  and  always  cursed  the 
house,  his  luck,  when  he  lost.  Ulick  didn't  know  how 
to  play  cards,  or,  indeed,  any  games  indoor  or  outdoor. 
He  agreed  with  Huysmans,  who  wrote  that  a  monument 
should  be  erected  to  the  memory  of  the  inventor  of 
playing  cards,  for  had  he  not  done  something  toward  the 
suppression  of  free-speech  among  imbeciles?  He  forgot 
the  women,  said  Ulick.  They  always  gabble,  even  on 
their  death  bed. 

Ulick  adored  the  lunar  sex,  minions  of  the  moon,  sub 
ject  in  the  profoundest  tides  of  their  being  to  our  atten 
dant  planets'  influence.  Apart  from  his  studies  nothing 
interested  him  like  sex.  Sex  is  the  salt  of  life,  he  had 
declared  one  night  in  the  presence  of  his  companions. 
Stone  growled,  but  Easter  gave  him  a  long,  penetrating 


70  PAINTED  VEILS 

look  and  he  went  hot  and  cold,  and  was  all  gooseflesh 
in  a  minute.  "Presently,"  chimed  in  Stone,  "you  will  be 
quoting  Walt  Whitman's  The  Woman  that  WTaits  for 
Me.  "What  did  she  wait  for?"  eagerly  inquired  the 
girl.  Ulick  groaned  and  put  his  hands  to  his  ears. 
"All  is  lacking,  if  sex  is  lacking,  or  if  the  moisture  of 
the  right  man  is  lacking!  There  you  have  it,  Easter." 
She  steadily  regarded  Ulick,  who  was  blushing.  "Who 
is  this  Walt  Whitman?  Isn't  he  a  dirty-minded  person, 
or  is  he  an  ex-medical  student?"  "He  was  an  old  woman 
and  a  windbag,"  answered  Alfred.  "I  knew  him  well 
when  I  was  in  Philadelphia  writing  for  the  'Evening 
Bulletin.'  He  boasted  of  a  virility  he  never  had."  "I 
hear  the  eunuchs  singing  and  trilling,"  interrupted 
Ulick  who  was  fond  of  Heine.  .  .  "No,  I  won't  say 
that,"  continued  Stone  dispassionately;  "Whitman 
wasn't  a  eunuch,  at  least,  not  mentally.  .  ."  "Oh! 
what's  the  use  of  talking  so  much  about  the  horrid 
thing?"  broke  in  Easter.  "Actions  speak  louder  than 
words.  When  a  man  begins  boasting  about  past  per 
formances — Alfred  there's  a  jockey  phrase  for  you — 
make  up  your  mind  that  man's  through  with  women, 
whether  he  is  a  poet  or  a  policeman.  .  ."  "Easter!" 
exclaimed  in  unison  the  two  young  men.  She  had 
succeeded  in  shocking  both  the  student  and  the  cynic. 
Easter  laughed  at  their  hypocritical  expression. 

They  went  to  Invern's  rooms.  Her  lungs  were 
too  full  of  food  to  sing,  she  said,  so  she  drummed  some 
Chopin  nocturnes  and  valses.  Stone  lolled  at  length  on 


PAINTED  VEILS  71 

the  couch  and  studied  the  Albrecht  Diirer  Melancolia 
which  hung  level  with  his  gaze.  He  appreciated  the 
artistic  tastes  of  his  friend  and  often  wondered  over  his 
future.  The  easy-going  friendship  of  Ulick  and  the 
girl  didn't  disturb  him;  she  was  hail-fellow-well-met 
with  every  man  she  knew;  yet  he  also  knew  that  no  one 
presumed  too  much  with  her.  Invern  re-appeared. 
They  gossiped.  And  then  came  a  discreet  tapping  on 
the  glass  door.  All  three  simultaneously  said  "damn!" 
They  were  in  no  receptive  mood  for  strangers.  Ulick 
peevishly  cried:  "Entrez."  It  was  Paul  Godard.  With 
out  allowing  a  moment  to  elapse  Paul  blithely  sped  into 
the  room,  made  a  mock-reverence  before  Easter,  said 
"hallo!"  to  Stone,  and  beamed  on  the  annoyed  Ulick, 
who  politely  but  frigidly,  bade  his  unwelcome  guest  be 
seated.  Paul  paid  no  attention  to  the  request.  He 
faced  the  girl.  "Don't  mind  my  entering  in  this  rude 
fashion,  do  you?  Madame  told  me  you  were  all  here 
and  she  audibly  wondered  if  you  were  having  a  little 
game.  I  informed  her  in  turn  that  Invern  hated  poker 
too  much  to  run  a  rival  establishment  under  the  same 
roof.  Ha !  ha !  Now,  good  people,  what  I've  come  here 
to  propose  is  this:  I've  a  new  touring-car,  a  jolly  big 
one.  It's  moonlight,  and  the  roads  are  fairly  clear  of 
snow,  my  fellow  says.  Let's  all  go  for  a  ride  in  the  park 
and  stop  at  Delmonico's  for  a  little  supper  afterwards." 
The  other  men  frowned.  Behind  Godard,  Ulick  shook 
his  head  in  significant  negation  at  Easter.  But  she 
was  entranced  by  the  invitation.  Delmonico's  and 


72  PAINTED  VEILS 

champagne.  And  a  real  motor-car,  novel  enough  in 
those  days.  The  name  was  music  in  her  ears.  From 
a  child  she  had  heard  of,  had  read  of,  Delmonico's. 
In  the  little  Virginian  town  where  she  was  born  Harvey's 
at  Washington  had  been  the  shibboleth  of  the  provin 
cial  epicures.  But  in  Richmond  they  said  Delmonico 
and  Harvey.  Fashionable  weddings  and  banquets  took 
place  under  the  roof  of  the  famous  restaurant  only  a 
couple  of  blocks  distant.  The  snob,  which  lurks  under 
the  skin  of  every  woman,  came  to  life  with  the  beckon 
ing  words  of  Paul  Godard.  Would  she  go?  She  at  once 
accepted  and  went  upstairs  to  get  a  warm  wrap  and  to 
prink  up,  although  she  wore  her  best  and  only  dinner- 
gown.  Let  the  others  do  what  they  pleased.  She 
wouldn't  miss  a  chance  like  that,  no,  not  even  if  she 
had  to  go  alone.  Alone?  She  looked  at  her  image  in  the 
glass  of  her  dressing  table.  Alone !  No,  that  wouldn't 
do.  She  must  have  a  chaperone.  That  was  inevitable. 
But  where  to  find  the  treasure — a  blind,  dumb,  deaf, 
sleepy  chaperone.  Easter  realized  the  difficulties  of 
the  campaign  ahead  of  her.  She  resigned  herself  to 
the  superfluous  presence  of  Stone  or  Invern,  or  horrors, 
to  the  pair  of  them. 

She  hurried  downstairs.  To  her  astonishment  there 
was  no  light  in  Invern's  room.  She  shook  the  door. 
It  was  locked.  She  flared-up  at  once.  Her  watch  told 
her  that  she  hadn't  been  dressing  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour — a  generous  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes. 
This  looked  like  a  planned  insult.  Were  those  two  boys 


PAINTED  VEILS  73 

jealous  because  Mr.  Godard  had  invited  her?  Thor 
oughly  ruffled  she  inarched  through  the  drawing-room 
determined  to  go  for  a  walk,  when  she  heard  Paul's 
voice:  "Miss  Brandes,  Miss  Brandes.  Come  to  this 
door,  the  car  is  waiting."  Aglow,  his  handsome  face 
betrayed  his  joy  at  having  her  near  him.  She  looked 
blank.  "Oh!  Invern  and  Stone  have  gone  on  the  job, 
as  they  put  it.  I  presume  to  some  theatre  or  concert. 
But,"  he  lightly  assured  her,  not  without  a  tinge  of 
malice,  "I  think  they  are  both  huffed  because  they  can't 
come  along  with  us."  Easter  didn't  pause.  In  the  car 
speeding  under  a  frosty  moon,  she  said:  "Of  course, 
they  are  mad.  There  is  no  opera  or  theatre  to  write 
about  tonight.  They  are  quite  free.  That  was  an 
excuse."  "Aren't  some  men  small  potatoes?"  cried  Paul 
as  he  cuddled  as  closely  as  he  dared. 


.  .  .  Ulick  went  with  Stone  to  the  opera,  but  he 
didn't  enjoy  himself.  It  was  repetition  night  of  "Les 
Huguenots"  with  the  celebrated  cast:  Melba,  Nordica, 
the  two  De  Reszkes,  Maurel,  Plan  con;  but  Meyerbeer 
— who  was  surely  a  syndicate — had  ceased  to  interest 
the  young  man.  His  companion  seldom  sat  in  the 
"Chanticleer's"  seats,  consoling  himself  with  cigarettes 
in  the  press-room.  Ulick  wandered  about  the  lobby 
dodging  De  Vivo  and  other  ghosts  from  the  musical 
past  who  could  give  you  all  the  famous  casts  of  the 


74  PAINTED  VEILS 

opera  since  it  was  produced.  He  chatted  with  Max 
Hirsh  and  Tom  Bull,  shook  Maurice  Grau  by  the  hand 
and  no  longer  able  to  endure  the  heated  house  he  strolled 
out  into  Broadway  and  irresolutely  stood  at  the  corner. 
A  drinking  man  would  have  passed  the  time  more 
agreeably;  neither  a  smoker  nor  a  drinker  he  was  bored 
to  death.  Past  eleven  o'clock  and  nowhere  to  go  but 
home.  Why  not?  Tomorrow  was  to  be  a  busy  day. 
He  had  to  write  his  Sunday  screed.  Ibsen  again.  No 
one  else  to  write  about.  The  New  York  theatre  was 
simply  disgusting.  Poor  plays  reeking  with  greasy 
sensuality  thinly  varnished  with  sloppy  sentimentality. 
That's  your  theatre-goer  for  you,  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  slowly  walked  down  Broadway  to  25th  Street; 
either  filth  or  tears,  or  both.  But,  then,  sentimental 
souls  are  only  one  remove  from  sensuality;  they  call  it 
"sensuousness"  in  fiction,  but  it's  plain,  everyday 
eroticism.  I  wonder  what  that  girl  is  doing  now?  It 
was  like  an  aching  nerve,  this  question. 

From  the  moment  when  they  left  Paul  Godard,  Ulick 
had  not  ceased  to  think  of  Easter.  Her  insensibility 
to  the  finer  shades  had  irritated  him  before  this.  Her 
manners  were  superficially  good.  She  was  not  a  "noisy" 
girl,  though  evidently  little  restrained  by  convention  in 
the  matter  of  speech;  she  would  blurt  out  the  most 
appalling  sentences,  and  with  composed  features.  Is 
she  on  the  other  side  of  good  and  evil,  as  Nietzsche, 
his  favorite  philosopher  phrased  it?  And  how  selfishly 
she  had  acceded  to  that  snob  Godard  simply  because 


PAINTED  VEILS  75 

he  was  rich  and  owned  a  motor-car.  Of  course,  he 
would  make  love  to  her  and,  of  course,  she  knew  how 
to  take  care  of  herself.  No  doubt  as  to  that.  But 
Delmonico's  and  champagne.  Oceans  of  it.  What 
then?  Where  could  they  go  afterwards?  Would  Easter 
be  foolish  enough  to  visit  Godard's  apartment — he  had 
a  swell  suite  on  upper  Madison  Avenue.  Surely  not. 
But,  added  Ulick  in  a  resigned  mood,  you  never  can  tell 
with  the  rotten  artistic  temperament;  always  the  excuse 
this  same  temperament  to  kick  the  decalogue  in  the 
midriff.  Despite  his  grouchy  humor  he  smiled  at  his 
acute  attack  of  virtue. 

It  was  within  a  half  hour  of  midnight  on  the  Hoffman 
House  clock  when  he  reached  his  street.  Delmonico's 
was  brilliantly  illuminated.  He  paused  and  wondered 
whether  he  should  cross,  go  into  the  cafe  and  eat  a 
rabbit,  but  he  feared  meeting  Godard.  The  young  men 
hadn't  parted  amiably.  Ulick  naturally  thought  Paul 
a  bit  of  a  cad  to  invade  his  room  and  carry  off  his 
guest  without  a  by-your-leave !  Was  he  in  love  with 
Easter  himself?  Or  was  it  only  an  itching  curiosity  to 
discover  her  feelings  concerning  a  certain  mysterious 
event?  He  didn't  know,  yet  it  was  with  mixed  feelings 
that  he  saw  Godard's  motor-car  in  front  of  the  Maison 
Felice,  the  chauffeur  on  guard,  smoking.  So  they're 
back,  he  said.  No  doubt  in  the  drawing-room,  or, 
perhaps,  Godard  has  been  drawn  into  the  poker  game. 
Mounting  the  steps  that  led  to  the  second  entrance, 
Ulick  found  himself  in  the  hall  at  the  end  of  which  was 


76  PAINTED  VEILS 

his  apartment.  As  he  passed  he  peeped  into  the 
drawing-room.  It  was  empty  and  as  mournful  as  ever. 
He  could  hear  the  poker  players  in  Madame's  room, 
but  he  had  no  stomach  for  cards  and  he  went  to  his  own 
glass  door.  The  lights  had  been  extinguished  in  the 
music-room.  The  place,  however,  was  faintly  illumi 
nated.  Confused  noises  reached  his  ears.  Voices, 
indistinct,  unmistakably  those  of  a  man  and  a  woman, 
startled  him  so  that  he  stood  arrested  on  the  threshold. 
A  struggle  of  some  sort  was  under  way.  A  man's 
voice  pleaded.  The  woman's  was  suppressed  as  if  with 
rage.  At  times  there  were  outbursts  and  threats.  A 
heavy  object  fell  somewhere.  Ulick's  indignation 
boiled  over.  Turning  up  the  lights  at  the  switch  he 
hastened  into  his  bedroom.  There  he  saw  Easter  in  a 
half-sitting  posture  on  the  bed  her  strong  arms  out 
stretched  against  the  assaulting  male.  She  was  fully 
dressed  though  her  skirt  was  rolled  above  her  knees, 
revealing  her  lithe  legs  encased  in  black  silk  stockings. 
Her  features  were  discomposed  by  emotion.  Her  hair 
deranged.  She  was  not  agreeable  to  contemplate. 

"Don't  you  dare !"  she  was  gasping  as  Ulick  entered. 
At  once  the  action  of  the  drama  halted.  Half-drunk, 
Paul  stared  at  Ulick.  He  began  babbling  an  excuse 
when  he  was  violently  shoved  from  the  room  and  soon 
found  himself  in  the  hall.  He  didn't  resist  for  he  knew 
the  grip  of  Ulick,  saw  his  broad,  deep  chest,  and  was 
aware  that  the  other  was  the  stronger.  "My  chauffeur," 
he  began,  but  was  swiftly  propelled  to  the  street  door. 


PAINTED  VEILS  77 

"You  mean  brute.  Only  because  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
scandal  I'd  kick  you  into  the  gutter.  You  cad.  You 
rotter.  Trying  to  assault  a  girl  in  my  room — "  "You 
want  her  for  yourself,"  giggled  Paul  in  drunken  fashion. 
He  was  expelled  without  undue  gentleness  and  staggered 
into  the  arms  of  his  chauffeur.  A  minute  later  Ulick 
heard  the  honk  of  a  horn  as  the  machine  sped  toward 
Fifth  Avenue.  He  returned  to  his  room  inwardly  re 
joicing  that  no  one  had  witnessed  the  row. 

Easter  lay  sprawling,  her  hat  crushed  over  her  eyes, 
her  arms  helpless.  She  was  asleep  and  slightly  snoring. 
Her  red  face  proclaimed  a  certain  congestion.  She's 
drunk,  too,  exclaimed  Ulick.  What  should  he  do  now? 
Summon  Madame  Felice?  No,  not  to  be  thought  of. 
The  Madame  never  demanded  a  wedding  certificate, 
but  in  the  matter  of  behaviour  she  was  inflexible.  A 
half-drunken  man  was  looked  upon  as  a  matter  of 
course;  a  drunken  woman,  however,  was  invited  to 
leave  the  house  after  the  first  transgression.  The 
Maison  Felice  was  eminently  respectable,  and,  thriving 
hotel  as  it  was,  the  police  had  never  been  called  in 
because  of  a  recalcitrant  guest.  Ulick  remembered 
that.  Nevertheless,  he  shivered.  The  snoring  of  the 
girl  increased  in  volume  and  intensity.  He  lifted  her 
head  and  put  a  pillow  under  it;  he  feared  she  would 
strangle  with  her  head  so  pushed  into  her  neck.  He 
pulled  down  her  dress,  but  noted  the  generous  propor 
tions  of  the  young  woman  who  in  her  stupour  was  at  his 
mercy.  But  such  a  temptation  never  came  to  him. 


78  PAINTED  VEILS 

His  rage  was  not  yet  appeased  over  the  ungentlemanly 
tactics  of  a  clubman,  who  took  a  defenceless  girl  out, 
got  her  drunk  because  of  her  inexperience,  and  then 
had  the  insolence  to  bring  her  into  the  apartment  of 
another  man  and  attempt  to  rape  her.  What  else  was 
it?  She  was,  thanks  to  her  condition,  nearly  over 
powered  when  he  had  entered.  Ulick  became  almost 
heroic  in  his  own  eyes.  Rescued  from  the  ravisher — 
that  vulgar  cad!  But  what  was  he  going  to  do  with 
the  lady?  She  looked  as  if  she  expected  to  spend  the 
night  in  his  bed.  A  pretty  mess,  this.  Then  he  heard 
her  voice : 

"Ulick,  darling  man,  my  darling  husband,"  she 
muttered,  and  opened  her  arms  as  if  to  embrace  him. 
The  champagne  is  telling  the  truth — at  last,  he  thought, 
and  lost  no  time  in  lying  beside  her  and  taking  her  in 
his  arms.  "Yes,  you  poor,  dear  Easter.  How  glad  I 
am  to  be  near  you,  I  love  you  so" — he  did  love  her  as  he 
felt  her  splendid  body  close  to  him.  He  kissed  her  on 
the  mouth,  but  the  champagne  odor  was  repugnant. 
Easter,  her  eyes  closed,  returned  his  ardent  hug.  Sud 
denly  she  burst  into  hysterical  laughter.  Ulick  relaxed 
his  hold  thinking  it  was  the  effects  of  the  champagne. 
He  became  alarmed.  Someone  might  hear  this  mani 
acal  laughter.  Sitting  up  he  placed  his  hand  over  her 
mouth.  She  gasped  and  struggled  pointing  all  the  while 
at  something.  He  looked  in  the  open  bathroom  door. 
Nothing.  Her  laughter  was  become  uncontrollable. 
Cursing  his  luck,  for  he  had  almost  achieved  felicity, 


PAINTED  VEILS  79 

Ulick  dashed  to  the  washstand  and  drew  a  glass  of  water. 
That  would  revive  her  and  stop  the  damnable  noise. 
She  waved  him  away,  chuckling:  "Ulick,  Ulick,  look 
at  yourself  in  the  glass.  Jewel,  you've  been  making 
love  to  me  all  this  time  with  your  hat  on.  Oh!  Jewel, 
I'll  die  over  this  joke" — fresh  peals  ensued.  Chagrined, 
he  touched  his  head.  His  silk  hat  was  jammed  over  his 
ears.  In  his  excitement  he  hadn't  noticed  it.  With  an 
oath  he  dropped  the  glass  and  turning  to  the  bed  was 
about  to  warn  her  that  if  she  didn't  stop  he  would  turn 
her  out.  For  the  moment  he  hated  her.  What  a  sight 
he  must  have  been.  But  too  his  consternation  she  was 
again  in  deep  slumber.  To  hell  with  her !  he  exclaimed 
and  went  into  the  music-room  where  he  turned  on  the 
lights  and  seated  himself  on  a  comfortable  couch.  He 
could  not  sleep.  She  snored  on.  .  .  Stiff,  in  the  dull 
morning,  he  found  himself  in  the  same  spot.  He  tip 
toed  into  the  bedroom.  Easter  had  gone.  Mechanically 
he  gazed  into  the  mirror.  The  hat  was  still  on  his 
head. 


VI 

On  East  58th  Street  there  once  stood  Peter  Buckel's 
brewery.  Opposite  was,  still  is,  Terrace  Garden.  A 
theatre  now  occupies  the  old  brewery  ground.  Young 
people  who  preferred  serious  converse  to  the  glitter  and 
bang  of  the  big  Garden  across  the  street  went  to 
Buckel's.  A  wooden  terrace  with  a  roof  was  pleasant 


80  PAINTED  VEILS 

to  sit  upon  when  the  weather  was  warm.  A  huge  tree 
grew  in  the  middle  of  this  esplanade  and  the  owner  had 
artfully  made  it  serve  as  a  decoration.  Under  its 
spreading  foliage  people  supped  and  smoked.  The  town 
was  then  younger,  less  crowded  by  "undesirable  citizens" 
— the  phrase  is  of  Theodore  Roosevelt's  making — and 
life  more  mellow,  because  less  puritanical.  An  evening 
in  middle  May  saw  a  group  around  the  tree-table  as  it 
was  called;  the  most  coveted  spot  on  the  terrace. 
There  were  Ulick  Invern  and  Alfred  Stone.  Next  to 
him  sat  a  tall  thin  young  man  addressed  by  his  com 
panions  as  Milton.  He  did  not  wear  a  clerical  garb  but 
the  cut  of  him  wras  unquestionably  priestly.  His  har 
monious  features,  extremely  blond  hair,  prominent  eye 
balls,  gray  in  color,  denoted  refinement  of  mind  and 
body.  He  was  not  in  the  least  priggish  and  gave  himself 
no  sacerdotal  airs.  If  he  had  done  so  he  would  soon  have 
been  lonely.  Ulick  and  Alfred  were  too  easy-going  to 
endure  superior  pretensions  in  anyone;  besides,  they 
had  known  Milton  before  he  went  to  the  Jesuits, 
and  Ulick  sincerely  sorrowed  when  ill-health  fostered 
by  strenuous  study  had  sent  his  friend  temporarily 
back  into  the  world  he  despised.  He  recognized  that 
Milton  had  a  genuine  vocation. 

"That  was  a  nice  hot  picnic,"  ejaculated  Stone, 
mopping  his  brow  as  he  dipped  his  nose  into  a  long 
beaker  of  beer.  "Never  again,"  chimed  in  Ulick. 
Milton  became  nervous.  "Where  have  you  chaps  been 
this  hot  afternoon?"  "You  wouldn't  call  this  hot  after 


PAINTED  VEILS  81 

Hoboken,"  cut  in  Stone.  "Hotter  than  the  hinges  of 
hell,"  added  Ulick  as  he  emptied  his  lemonade  glass. 
"I  feel  like  a  regular  tosspot  this  evening,"  he  continued. 
"We  must  have  swilled  a  bathtub  of  liquid  this  after 
noon  over  at  Meyer's  in  Hoboken,  eh,  Alfred?"  "You 
didn't,  old  herring-gut,"  was  the  rather  surly  retort, — 
"but  I  did.  Why  people  of  reputed  sanity  cross  the 
Hudson  on  a  sweltering  day  to  wave  handkerchiefs  at 
their  friends  on  out-bound  steamers  has  always  puzzled 
me.  Now,  why  should  we  have  given  ourselves  the 
bother  to  say  farewell  to  Easter  Brandes  on  a  crowded 
dock,  when  we  could  just  as  well  have  wished  her 
bon-voyage  the  night  before  at  the  Maison  Felice"- 
"Has  Miss  Brandes  sailed  to  Europe?"  inquired  Milton, 
not  without  interest  in  his  voice.  "Yes,  she  goes 
to  Berlin,  to  Lilli  Lehmann,  thence  to  emerge  a  full- 
fledged  prima-donna  and  Wagner  interpreter,  et  patiti 
et  patita !  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  why  she  didn't 
stay  under  Madame  Ash's  wing  a  couple  of  seasons 
more.  Mind  you,  I  grant  her  talent.  She  is 
positively  brilliant,  but  she  needs  steadying.  Her 
voice,  her  delivery,  her  extraordinary  memory — she 
already  has  fifteen  roles  completely  memorized,  mas 
tered — these  are  but  a  hint  of  what  the  future  may  bring 
forth;  nevertheless,  she  is  too  young  for  Lehmann  and 
— Oh,  what's  the  use?  Women  don't  think  with  their 
heads,  they  think  with  their  matrix.  They  are 
too  damned  emotional.  They  are  the  sexual  sex.  .  . 


82  PAINTED  VEILS 

Putting  an  idea  in  their  heads  is  like  placing  a  razor  in 
the  hands  of  a  child.     .     ." 

"And  men,  I  presume,  think  with  their  cortex," 
interposed  the  cool  voice  of  Ulick.  Milton  deprecating- 
ly  lifted  a  white  hand.  "I  can't  say  I  admire  the 
turn  our  talk  is  taking.  Alfred  is  too  literal,  too  fond 
of  physiological  details.  I  want  to  hear  more  of  the 
art  of  Miss  Brandes.  .  ."  "And  less  about  her  coda — 
there's  a  musical  term  for  you,"  cried  Stone.  All  three 
young  men  laughed.  At  times  Alfred  could  be  amusing 
ly  immodest.  "Well,  she  has  gone  to  Germany  despite 
your  advice,"  declared  Ulick.  "She  is  a  stubborn  crea 
ture  and  I'm  quite  sure  she  has  done  the  right  thing. 
That  young  woman  has  a  head  of  her  own  and  instinct 
prompts  her  in  the  right  direction.  She  may  not  always 
think  with  her  head,  yet  she  has  managed  to  land  on 
both  feet.  Think  of  it  boys,  Easter  has  only  been  here 
about  six  months.  Behold!  she  goes  to  Berlin  where 
she  will  be  under  the  protection  of  the  greatest  living 
Wagner  singer.  How  did  she  do  it?  Magnetism? 
Beauty?  Talent?  All  three  I  fancy.  And  she  is  penni 
less.  She  told  me  so.  Yet  she  dresses  well,  and  someone 
must  be  putting  up  for  her  expenses  while  she  is  abroad" 
.  .  .  "Oh  Ulick !  Thou  art  an  ass,"  sang  Stone  in  his 
most  derisive  manner.  "Has  she  a  banker?  Yes,  she 
is  lucky,  she  has  two.  Paul  Godard  is  one —  "It's 
a  lie!"  shouted  Ulick,  who  was  at  once  in  a  fighting 
mood.  "And  the  other,"  continued  Stone,  unmoved, 
"is  the  young  woman  who  is  to  play  chaperone  to  her 


PAINTED  VEILS  83 

innocence  while  she  remains  abroad.  I  know,  Frida 
Ash  told  me  everything,  and  between  you  and  me  and 
this  fat  old  tree,  I  think  Madame  Frida  is  glad  to  lose 
both  of  her  pupils.  They  sat  rather  heavily  on  her 
betimes." 

"Allie  Wentworth  is  all  right,"  returned  the  mollified 
Invern,  "but  I  fail  to  see  where  Master  Godard  comes  in. 
He  is  rich,  to  be  sure,  but  as  mean  as  sour-owl 
dirt.  .  ."  "The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece, 
where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung."  Stone  sneer- 
ingly  quoted.  Silence  ensued.  Then  Milton  spoke 
with  his  gentlest  intonations:  "I  wonder  why  it  is  that 
so  soon  as  a  young  woman  sings  or  goes  on  the  stage, 
mud-slinging  is  in  order?"  After  that  query  the  party 
broke  up.  Stone,  as  usual,  was  bored.  Ulick  felt  that 
too  much  had  been  said  of  the  girl  he  bade  adieu  a  few 
hours  before,  radiant  with  happiness  on  the  upper  deck 
of  the  steamship,  her  arms  holding  a  perfect  sheaf  of 
blush-roses.  She  had  been  cordial.  She  had  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek,  whispering,  "You  dear  old  Jewel," 
and  then  Allie  plucked  at  her  sleeve,  the  whistle 
roared  and  that  was  the  last  he  saw  of  Easter  Brandes. 
He  shook  hands  with  Milton.  Stone,  as  he  languidly 
sauntered  away  said  as  a  parting  shot,  over  his  shoulder: 
"I  suppose  you  know  the  rumour  'round  town  that 
Paul  Godard  has  been  her  banker?  His  name  is  on 
the  passenger-list  too.  Gay  bird,  Paul.  Ta!  Ta!" 
Ulick  went  home  in  a  sad  humour. 


THE  FOURTH   GATE 

At  the  fourth  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;    he  took 
off  the  jewels  that  adorn  her  breast  .  .  . 


Ulick  Invern  always  declared  that  he  was  a  New- 
Yorker  born.  This  was  a  mild  exaggeration;  his 
mother — she  had  been  a  Bartlett  before  her  marriage — 
was  bred  in  the  metropolis,  but  both  her  sons,  Oswald, 
the  elder,  and  Ulick,  were  born  in  Paris,  where  their 
father  was  Secretary  at  the  American  Legation.  Need 
less  to  add,  that  under  the  American  flag,  they  were 
registered  as  Americans.  The  elder  Invern  was  the 
second  son  of  a  needy  Irish  peer,  whose  heir  had  re 
trieved  the  fallen  fortunes  of  the  family,  an  ancient 
one  in  Kerry,  by  marrying  the  only  child  of  a  wealthy 
Dublin  iron-monger.  Ulick's  father  through  influence 
was  sent  to  Washington  where  he  served  a  few  years 
in  the  British  Embassy.  But  his  marriage  to  Madge 
Bartlett,  beautiful,  brilliant  girl,  rich  in  her  own  right, 
caused  a  change  of  plans  and  her  husband  not  only 
resigned  his  post,  but  in  due  course  of  time  became  a 
naturalized  citizen  of  the  United  States.  He  entered 
the  New  York  banking  house  of  his  father-in-law, 
who  was  not  particularly  impressed  by  his  daughter's 
husband  nor  his  capacity  as  a  business  man. 

The  elder  Bartlett  saw  clearly.  Handsome,  like  all 
the  Inverns,  Ulick  Sr.  became  a  pony-polo  player  of 
international  renown;  henceforward  Wall  Street  and 
the  bank  only  saw  him  when  he  dropped  in  to  negotiate 


88  PAINTED  VEILS 

a  domestic  loan.  No  one  could  dislike  this  big,  easy 
going,  young,  blue-eyed  Celt;  even  his  father-in-law 
succumbed — after  intervals  of  frigidity — to  his  per 
sonal  charm.  His  wife  adored  him  and  wept  over  his 
gaming  debts.  He  was  a  loose  fish.  Wine,  women, 
and  the  wheel  well  nigh  disrupted  her  family  life. 
Paris  offered  him  an  escape  from  what  he  called  the 
puritanism  of  New  York — where,  fancy!  one's  club 
shut  down  on  you  at  2  a.  m. — and  thus  it  happened 
that  Ulick  Invern,  Jr.,  first  saw  the  light  in  the  French 
capital.  With  his  brother,  two  years  his  senior,  he 
received  French  training:  The  Ecole  Normale,  private 
tutors,  ending  with  the  Sorbonne.  Oswald's  painting 
talent  soon  manifested  itself,  and  after  eighteen  the 
Paris  of  the  Americans  knew  him  no  longer.  He  went 
to  live  on  the  Left  Bank,  in  the  Impasse  du  Maine, 
where,  at  his  studio,  he  led  the  free,  happy  life  of  a 
monied  artist.  He  had  plenty  of  money,  thanks  to  his 
indulgent  mother,  who,  from  time  to  time  visited 
him,  and,  while  he  was  on  good  terms  with  his  brother, 
they  didn't  have  much  in  common  except  their  love 
for  the  Mater.  They  worshipped  her.  Their  father 
they  admired,  but  with  well-defined  reservations. 
He  was  a  nee'r-do-well  to  the  last,  and  died  an  aristo 
cratic  drunkard,  leaving  a  malodorous  memory,  many 
mistresses  and  a  cloud  of  debts.  His  widow  never 
mentioned  his  name — that  is,  unless  someone  spoke 
disparagingly  of  him;  then  she  betrayed  resentment. 
The  old  chap  was  good  form,  but  a  charming  black- 


PAINTED  VEILS  89 

guard,  all  the  same — that  was  the  verdict  of  his  children, 
who  speedily  forgot  him. 

But  his  influence  persisted  beyond  the  grave,  though 
the  opposite  of  what  might  have  been  expected.  Ulick 
told  people  who  wondered  over  his  abstinence  that 
his  father  had  drunk  and  smoked  enough  for  a  dozen 
families.  So  he  let  liquour  and  tobacco  alone;  besides, 
Oswald  kept  up  the  family  tradition — a  thirsty  one. 
Following  the  mother's  death,  which  occurred  a  few 
years  after  her  husband's — there  was  heart  malady 
in  the  history  of  the  Bartletts — the  two  young  men 
found  themselves  with  a  comfortable  income,  though 
not  too  rich.  They  saw  little  of  one  another.  Tolerant 
as  he  was  Ulick  couldn't  endure  the  sporting  artistic 
crowd  of  the  Latin  Quarter  atelier,  and  Oswald,  on 
his  side,  found  his  brother  a  trifle  pedantic,  doctrinaire, 
even  Utopian.  Wisely  they  kept  asunder.  A  French 
man  in  externals  and  by  culture  Ulick  knew  the  men 
and  women  of  the  early  nineties  who  made  Paris  a 
city  of  artistic  and  intellectual  light.  He  was  too 
young  to  have  remembered  Flaubert,  but  he  visited 
Edmond  de  Goncourt  at  Auteuil  and  there  encountered 
the  group  that  had  forsworn  Zola  and  Naturalism. 
He  admired  the  polished  style  of  Edmond  De  Gon- 
Icourt,  a  true  aristocrat  of  letters;  admired  his  Japonis- 
me,  his  bibelots,  pictures,  and  all  that  went  to  make 
the  ensemble  of  that  House  Beautiful.  A  point  of 
distain  had  begin  to  pierce  the  speech  of  the  superb 
old  gentleman,  who  confided  to  the  sympathetic 


90  PAINTED  VEILS 

American  youth  that  the  younger  generation  didn't 
even  knock  at  his  door,  that  he  and  his  dear  dead 
brother,  the  illustrious  Jules,  had  given  those  bud 
ding  litterateurs  a  new  opera-glass  through  which 
to  view  contemporary  life.  It  was  true.  Dandys  in 
their  prose  style,  the  De  Goncourts  had  fashioned  for 
themselves  a  personal  vision  and  speech,  feverish, 
staccato,  intense.  Their  chief  preoccupation  was 
art,  the  pictorial,  the  tangible  arts.  No  better  book 
about  artistic  life  has  been  written  than  Manette 
Salomon.  And  Madame  Gervaisais  is  less  an  odyssey 
of  a  weak  woman's  soul,  than  an  evocation  of  modern 
Rome.  Alone,  Edmond  had  written  those  exquisite 
notations  of  a  girl's  awakening  consciousness  to  be 
found  in  the  pages  of  Cherie.  Ulick  felt  that  he  would 
not  long  tarry  in  that  finely-filed,  but  chilly  literature. 
He  had  encountered  at  one  of  the  reunions  in  the 
famous  Goncourt  grenier,  Henry  James  and  also 
Joris-Karel  Huysmans,  whose  names  in  baptism  were 
Charles  Marie-George.  For  this  misanthropic  writer 
he  had  shown  such  a  preference  that  he  attracted  the 
attention  of  his  idol  and  was  invited  to  call  upon  him 
at  his  home  in  the  rue  de  Sevres  on  the  rive  gauche. 
A  friendship  began  which  greatly  influenced  the  de 
velopment  of  the  younger  man's  character.  His 
father  had  been  what  is  facetiously  called  a  "hickory" 
Catholic.  He  went  to  church  when  the  spirit  moved 
him.  Yet,  Irish-like,  he  never  let  the  lustral  week 
preceding  Easter  pass  without  confessing  and  com- 


PAINTED  VEILS  91 

municating,  usually  going  to  the  Trinity  church  on 
the  boulevard  Malsherbes,  where  he  found  a  friend 
in  a  little  Irish  priest  long  stationed  there  for  the  con 
venience  and  edification  of  English-speaking  residents. 
But  Ulick's  mother  had  been  a  High  Church  Epis 
copalian,  and  while  she  was  not  a  fervent  church 
woman  she  had  consented  to  the  baptism  of  her  sons  in 
the  Roman  Catholic  religion.  It  is  not  so  far  away 
from  my  faith,  she  had  told  her  fashionable  English 
friends  when  they  remonstrated  with  her  over  this 
backsliding  from  the  principles  of  the  Church  of  Eng 
land.  She,  too,  lacked  true  moral  fibre  though  her 
association  with  her  characterless  husband  may  have 
been  the  chief  contributing  cause. 

Ulick,  however,  was  not  of  the  temperament  re 
ligious.  He  believed,  of  course,  in  a  deity,  an  immanent 
deity;  his  was  a  pleasing  sort  of  personal  pantheism. 
Oswald  was  become  a  Manichean,  a  devil-worshipper. 
He  did  not  repudiate  the  authority  of  the  Church. 
But,  then,  Oswald  drank  absinthe,  and  long  before 
that  artists'  apotheosis,  he  had  hitched  his  artistic 
wagon  to  the  saturnine  canvases  of  Paul  Cezanne. 
Ulick,  on  the  contrary,  never  indulged  in  parti-pris. 
He  was  born,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible,  with  an 
indifferent  temperament  concerning  any  particular 
religion.  All  gods  were  divine  to  him,  from  the  fetish 
of  a  South-Sea  islander  to  the  sublime  doctrine  of 
transubstantiation.  He  would  have  agreed  with 
Baudelaire  that  it  is  neither  permissible  nor  prudent 


92  PAINTED  VEILS 

to  mock  at  any  idol.  A  deity  may  have  once  made  its 
abode  in  the  wood  or  stone.  Not  cynical,  Ulick  was 
never  convinced  that  any  act  of  his  could  alter  the 
inflexible  law  of  causality.  He  had  absorbed  from 
Taine  his  deterministic  leaning,  luckily  tempered  by 
a  sensible  toleration.  Whatever  God  is,  he  certainly 
can't  exist  outside  of  my  brain-cells,  argued  Ulick. 
Each  man  creates  a  god  after  his  own  image.  If  I 
stop  thinking  of  my  particular  deity-concept  then  he 
ceases  to  exist — for  me;  and  that  is  the  history  of 
every  god,  every  religion.  All  the  rest  is  theology. 
Mother  Church  with  her  magnificent  ceremonial,  her 
liturgy,  music,  painting,  sculpture,  above  all,  archi 
tecture — for  him,  Gothic — appealed  to  his  imagina 
tion,  historic  and  aesthetic.  Ulick  was  principally 
aesthetic;  morals  played  a  minor  role  in  his  existence. 
But  M.  Huysmans  had  traversed  the  seven  dolorous 
stations  of  his  own  crucified  spirit  and  he  at  once  made 
a  searching  examination  into  the  conscience  of  his 
youthful  admirer.  He  related,  not  without  a  certain 
muted  pride,  the  advice  of  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  the 
same  advice  Barbey  had  given  Charles  Baudelaire: 
that  either  the  author  of  La-Bas  must  prostrate  him 
self  at  the  feet  of  Jesus  crucified,  or  else  blow  out  his 
brains.  "C'est  fait,"  added  Huysmans.  It  was  shortly 
after  the  epoch  of  En  route  that  he  told  Ulick  of 
his  conversion,  not  an  unexpected  one  to  those  who 
knew  the  umbrageous,  slender  writer.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  curiously  beautiful  literature  it  produced 


PAINTED    VEILS  93 

the  various  states  of  soul  of  M.  Huysmans  would 
not  have  riveted  the  fancy  of  Invern.  The  mordant 
epithet,  picturesque  phrase,  the  lenten  rhythms  of 
this  multicolored  prose,  its  sharp,  savoury  imagery — 
Huysmans'  spiritual  landscapes  are  painted  with 
the  gusto  of  a  hungry  man  at  a  banquet  where  the 
plates  are  composed  by  a  chef  of  genius — all  these 
and  the  vision  of  a  profoundly  pessimistic  soul,  at 
tracted  him  to  Huysmans  as  to  no  other  modern 
writer.  Only  to  Petronius  Arbiter  among  earlier 
penmen  would  he  accord  an  equal  value.  Also  to  St. 
Augustine  and  Thomas  a  Kempis.  He  did  not  apolo 
gize  for  this  versatility  in  tastes. 

Huysmans  prodded  his  conscience  to  such  good 
effect  that  he  accompanied  the  master  to  St.  Sulpice, 
and  also  went  with  him  when  he  made  the  rounds  of 
the  bookstalls  along  the  Left  Bank  of  the  Seine. 
It  was  during  one  of  these  fascinating  excursions  in 
pursuit  of  ancient  Latin  hymnal  literature  that  Ulick 
was  presented  to  Remy  de  Gourmont,  another  of  his 
favorite  writers.  A  second  friendship  began,  that 
long  outlived  the  death  of  Huysmans.  Maurice 
Barres  and  his  deification  of  the  ego,  was  to  be  the 
third  and  principal  elape  in  his  moral  development. 
There  was  one  thing,  nevertheless,  that  M.  Huysmans 
could  not  persuade  him  to  do;  to  make  peace  with  his 
church.  Urged  to  the  confessional,  there  to  cleanse 
his  soul,  to  the  communion-table  to  assuage  his  thirst 
for  the  infinite,  Ulick  would  reply  with  a  shoulder- 


94  PAINTED  VEILS 

shrug.  The  truth  was  that  his  sceptical  analytical 
mind  and  his  passion  for  women  kept  him  from  taking 
the  final  leap-off  into  piety  and  purity.  My  friend, 
Huysmans  would  insist,  it  is  so  easy!  But  if  I  relapse, 
as  I  am  sure  to  do?  would  query  Ulick.  Then,  he  was 
assured  that  there  was  always  further  grace  for  the 
sinner.  The  waters  of  purification  were  always  on 
tap.  He  could  lave  himself  weekly — and  begin  over 
again;  even  the  very  next  day.  It's  too  easy,  and  it 
elevates  religion  to  the  dignity  of  a  Turkish-bath, 
Ulick  retorted.  M.  Huysmans,  in  turn,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  the  evening  would  end  in  tobacco  smoke 
and  furious  discusions  about  art  and  literature. 

And  what  evenings  of  ambrosia  they  were,  mingled 
with  the  venom  of  the  Master's  critiques!  He  spared 
no  one.  He  called  Monseigneur  d'Hulot,  a  bellicose 
booby,  that  same  erudite  and  amiable  churchman, 
who  later  wrote  so  discriminatingly  of  his  bitter- 
tongued  friend.  An  arsenal  of  opinions  passed  into 
the  possession  of  the  neophyte.  But  even  at  that 
early  age,  the  formative  period,  his  general  culture 
was  wider,  more  generous  than  the  Master's.  Ulick 
had  been  a  student  from  the  precocious  age  of  seven 
when  he  was  discovered  by  his  nurse  reading  La  Fon 
taine's  Fables  and  Pickwick  Papers.  This  bi-lingual 
training  had  produced  admirable  results.  He  knew  two 
literatures  thoroughly;  in  addition  to  a  fair  acquaint 
ance  with  German  and  Italian.  His  mother  hold  insisted 
on  a  German  university  and  he  selected  Jena  because 


PAINTED  VEILS  95 

of  its  propinquity  to  Weimar.  Those  four  years 
in  Germany  had  been  the  white  stones  in  his  studious 
career.  There  he  had  learned  and  loved  Bach  and 
Beethoven;  there  he  learned  to  know  Goethe,  the 
greatest  among  moderns — he  detested  Bismarck  and 
the  hard  positivism  of  the  Prussian  pan-Germanists ; 
Heine,  Schopenhauer  and  Nietzsche  were  to  come 
later.  His  reactions  to  the  system,  or  lack  of  system 
in  the  case  of  Nietzsche,  was  like  a  crisis  in  a  dangerous 
fever.  He  alternated  between  languour  and  exaltation. 
Schopenhauer  cooled  off  his  naturally  buoyant  tem 
perament,  but  Nietzsche  gave  him  ecstasy  as  if  poured 
from  an  overflowing  goblet. 

He  went  twice  weekly  to  Weimar  there  to  study 
pianoforte  and  theory  with  a  pupil  of  Franz  Liszt. 
The  drowsy  old  town  on  the  Ilm,  once  the  Athens  of 
Germany,  laid  his  imagination  under  a  spell.  He 
wandered  through  the  deserted  gardens  on  long  summer 
afternoons,  Faust  in  hand,  or  he  would  go  to  Liszt's 
house  in  the  woods,  hardly  a  quarter  hour's  stroll  from 
the  garden-house  of  Goethe,  and  ponder  the  extra 
ordinary  activities  of  poet  and  pianist.  In  this  same 
Weimar  Goethe  had  led  an  active,  practical  life,  he, 
the  pagan  hedonist,  accused  by  the  ignorant  of  day 
dreaming,  of  being  a  butterfly  voluptuary.  He  was 
the  real  political  ruler  and  administrator  of  Saxe- 
Weimar.  Liszt,  after  a  life  that  was  Caesarian  in 
its  triumphs,  had  calmly  entered  into  his  hermitage, 
where  he  taught,  prayed  and  composed.  And  this 


96  PAINTED  VEILS 

is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire,  thought  the  young 
man,  who  greatly  aspired,  though  not  for  the  prizes 
of  the  market-place.  Yonder,  at  Jena,  in  Dr.  Bings- 
wangar's  sanitorium,  was  hidden  the  poet-philosopher 
Nietzsche  whose  melodious  thunder-words  had  stirred 
to  the  core  the  self-satisfied  materialism  of  his  native 
land.  But  he  was  wounded,  his  eagle  wings  of  rhapsody 
and  rage  were  broken;  they  no  longer  supported  him 
in  his  flights  through  the  vasty  firmament  of  ideas. 
Later  he  was  to  come  to  his  last  asylum  in  Upper 
Weimar  there  to  be  soothed  and  watched  over  by  his 
devoted  sister  Elizabeth  Foerster-Nietzsche.  For  Ulick 
he  was  a  living  presence,  though  the  soul  was  absent 
from  his  body  at  Jena.  Zarathustra  and  Faust,  and 
the  exquisite  art  of  Frederic  Chopin  were  henceforth 
to  be  the  three  guiding  stars  in  his  constellation  of 
thinkers  and  artists.  Indeed,  it  was  the  difficulty 
of  finding  a  suitable  interpreter  of  Chopin  that  drove 
him  back  to  Paris.  His  Weimar  teacher  believed  in 
the  motto:  Aut  Lizst,  aut  nihil!  Ulick  preferred  the 
Pole  to  the  Hungarian:  besides,  a  teutonized  Chopin 
was  inconceivable. 


II 

One  phrase  of  Huysmans  he  remembered:  without 
personality,  no  talent.  If  I  can't  achieve  a  personality 
I  shall  never  become  a  writer,  thought  Ulick.  That's 
what  this  sweeping  dictum  means:  but  how  to 


PAINTED  VEILS  97 

achieve  a  personality?  He  was  forced  to  smile  over 
the  crudeness  of  his  question.  Either  you  have  it 
or  you  haven't — personality.  He  had  wished  to  ask 
M.  Huysmans  the  road  to  perfection,  but  he  put  off 
doing  so  for  he  knew  in  advance  the  answer:  Holy 
Mother  the  Church.  Then  one  day  he  received  a  card 
inscribed:  "Changement  de  domicile:  J.-K.  Huys 
mans.  Maison  Notre-Dame  a  Liguge  (Vienne)"  and 
he  felt  that  he  would  never  again  see  his  friend. 
Nor  did  he.  Huysmans,  become  a  saint,  rather  an 
acrimonious  saint,  had  severed  all  earthly  ties. 
Henceforth,  till  the  day  of  his  cruel  death,  he  was 
with  God. 

Music,  already  a  passion  with  Ulick,  began  to  dom 
inate  his  life.  He  lost  interest  in  various  absurd  or 
depraved  "movements"  that  floated  on  the  surface  of 
artistic  and  literary  life  in  Paris  like  greasy  scum  on 
clear  soup.  He  changed  his  apartment  and  went  out 
on  the  northern  line,  to  Villiers-le-Bel,  where  in  a 
rented  maisonette,  he  could  patrol  the  keyboard  five 
or  six  hours  daily  without  disturbing  his  neighbors. 
He  had  mastered  technical  difficulties  years  before, 
it  was  the  higher  reaches  of  interpretation  he  sought. 
He  played  Bach  and  Beethoven  with  a  fervour  that 
was  religious.  For  him,  as  for  Hans  von  Billow,  the 
Well-Tempered  Clavichord  and  the  Sonatas  were  the 
Old  and  New  Testaments  of  music.  Chopin  came  third 
in  this  immortal  trio  of  the  Father,  Son  and  Holy 
Spirit;  Chopin,  whose  Preludes  and  Studies  contain 


98  PAINTED  VEILS 

the  past,  present  and  future  of  the  pianoforte.  Even 
at  this  period  Ulick  saw  clearly  into  the  classic  genius 
of  the  Polish  tone-poet.  Schumann  ran  a  close  second 
to  Chopin  in  his  affections.  The  glowing  heart  of 
romance,  of  great  still  forests,  tangled  underwoods, 
secret,  sudden  little  lakes,  clear  and  shining  in  the 
mystic  daylight,  their  waters  washed  at  dusk  by  the 
silver  of  a  tender  young  moon;  lover's  vows  in  the 
dense  darkness,  sighs  over  their  hapless  fate — all 
passion  and  mystery,  shy,  hesitating,  are  in  his  music. 
He,  not  Chopin,  is  the  real  Romantic.  Brahms  and 
the  moderns  were  not  neglected.  The  elusive  genius 
of  Claude  Debussy  was  then  new.  Ulick  admired  him. 
He  loved  certain  phases  of  Brahms;  not  Dr.  Johannes 
Brahms,  the  ponderous  philosopher,  but  Brahms, 
the  romantic,  the  follower  in  the  trail  of  Schumann. 
There  are  pages  in  the  pianoforte  music  that  evoke 
grey  days  when  the  soul  in  its  reverse  aspirations  recoils 
on  itself,  half  articulate,  divinely  stammering,  to 
express  sensations  that  had  lain  buried  in  its  con- 
vulutions  since  the  birth  of  the  monad.  Brahms,  too, 
is  a  mystic.  His  music  sometimes  registers  moods 
recondite,  moods  that  transcend  normal  psychic 
experiences.  After  Mendelssohn,  and  his  crystalline 
shallowness,  the  utterances  of  Brahms  are  seemingly 
prophetic;  a  prophet  who  does  not  comprehend  his 
own  speech,  though  the  fiery  coal  has  touched  his  lips 
into  eloquence.  But  the  Forty-eight  Preludes  and 
Fugues,  with  the  Beethoven  sonatas  were  the  daily 


PAINTED  VEILS  99 

musical  sustenance,  the  bread  of  life,  for  Ulick.  They 
quite  filled  his  emotional  and  intellectual  cravings. 

He  didn't  neglect  the  other  arts.  A  brief  stay  in 
the  atelier  of  Gerome,  later  with  Bonnat,  failed  to 
convince  him  that  he  had  a  painting  hand.  His  eye 
was  well-trained,  not  only  by  constant  study  and  ad 
venturing  among  the  masterpieces  in  the  Louvre, 
but  also  by  sketching  outdoors.  The  theatre  was  a 
thrice-told  tale  for  him,  his  parents  had  been  lovers  of 
the  drama,  and  Paris  had  everything  to  gratify  his 
versatile  tastes.  In  all  the  tohu-bohu  of  his  activities, 
he  did  not  lose  sight  of  his  chiefest  ambition;  to  become 
a  writer,  one  with  an  individual  note.  Playing  the 
pianoforte  was  all  very  well;  he  knew  that  he  had  a 
friend  for  his  old  age;  but  the  main  business  of  his 
life  was  writing,  and  if  he  recognized  his  dilettante 
viewpoint  he  was  assured  that  at  some  time  this  smat 
tering  of  the  Seven  Arts — Jack  of  all,  master  of  none — 
would  prove  useful  in  his  avocation  of  criticism, 
for  critic  he  had  elected  to  become.  Criticism  was  the 
best  way  to  practice  his  scales  in  public  and  acquire 
a  supple,  steady  touch  on  his  intellectual  instrument. 
In  due  time  his  own  books  would  follow. 

He  wrote  French  as  if  it  were  his  native  tongue,  as 
in  a  sense  it  was.  English  was  always  spoken  in  the 
Invern  household;  that  had  been  a  wise  rule  of  a 
seldom  wise  father.  Also  French  or  Italian,  not  often 
German — because  Ulick  never  met  in  Paris  any  of 
his  old  Jena  associates;  but,  preferably  French.  Yet, 


100  PAINTED  VEILS 

when  he  essayed  several  flights,  chiefly  critical,  he 
recognized  that  his  was  the  Anglo-Saxon  mind.  He 
thought  in  French,  the  purity  of  which  in  diction  could 
not  be  challenged;  nevertheless,  the  fundamental 
structure  of  his  thought  was  English.  His  French 
essays,  which  he  showed  to  that  most  unselfish  of 
professional  egotists,  most  optimistic  of  pessimists, 
Remy  de  Gourmont,  were  soon  touched  on  their  sore 
spot. 

"You  are,  my  dear  young  friend,  an  Englishman, 
more  than  that,  an  Irishman,  still  more  than  that, 
an  American,  and,  having  known  that  beautiful  lady, 
your  dear  mother,  I  may  a,dd,  A  New  York  American. 
You  write  well  in  our  tongue,  though  not  so  well  as 
Arthur  Symons,  anyhow,  better  than  Oscar  Wilde — 
who  hasn't  mastered  our  syntax — but,  but — it's  not 
vital,  individual,  your  style.  I  overhear  too  many 
echoes  of  Flaubert,  Goncourt,  above  all,  Huysmans. 
That  won't  do.  You  have  so  saturated  yourself  with 
the  ideas  and  methods  of  these  masters  that  you  have 
left  no  room  for  the  growth  of  your  own  personality. 
Jeune  homme,  ecoutez!" — and  the  kindly  eyes  peering 
through  the  big  bowed  glasses  pierced  to  the  inner 
consciousness  of  his  listener — "Take  the  advice  of  an 
old  doctor  of  vocables.  Have  you  written  much  in 
English?  No?  I  thought  not.  That  is  a  virgin-field 
for  you.  Go  home,  go  back  to  New  York,  you  are 
deracinated  in  Paris,  as  my  brilliant  friend,  Maurice 
Barres  puts  it — what,  haven't  you  read  Barres?  Begin 


PAINTED  VEILS  101 

at  once  with  that  novel  of  national  energy,  Les 
Deracines — and  of  a  cosmopolite,  detestable,  person — 
pardon! — as  detestable  as  the  dilettante  attitude. 
Perhaps  the  unexpected  clash  with  a  comparatively 
new  language,  new  characters,  and  new  environment 
may  strike  a  personal  spark  from  your  little  grind 
stone  in  New  York.  Otherwise,  Monsieur  Ulick, 
you  will  become  a  replica  of  your  brother  Oswald, 
with  whom  I  occasionally  collaborate  in  a  bock  at 
the  Cafe  Francois-Premier;  you  will  become  a  second- 
rate  Parisian,  writing  excellent,  colorless  prose,  the 
standardized  prose  of  the  college  professor.  The  world 
over  my  dear  chap,  college  professors  are  alike — the 
Eternal  Sophomore,  coprolites  of  the  ideal.  No,  I 
repeat,  don't  expect  to  get  your  head  above  the  turbid 
stream.  Return  to  your  native  heath  and  astonish 
the  Yanks,  as  your  beloved  Mark  Twain  says — 
there's  a  Yankee  genius  for  you,  racy,  original,  and 
one  who  should  stand  four-square  with  Emerson,  Poe 
and  Thoreau.  But,  then,  you  have  no  school  of  critique 
in  America,  so  I  suppose  Mark  Twain  will  be  put  in 
his  true  niche  a  half  century  hence.  But  do  you  love 
your  country?"  suddenly  asked  the  master.  Cornered, 
Ulick  blurted  out:  "Certainly,  I  am  an  American, 
though  born  in  Paris.  Besides,  I  love  baseball  and 
mince  pie." 

"Bon,  true  American  arts,"  said  the  writer  and 
benevolently  dismissed  his  ardent  neophyte  with  the 
shining  brow. 


102  PAINTED  VEILS 

III 

The  toypond  near  the  east  driveway  floated  many 
miniature  boats  that  Saturday  afternoon  in  May. 
The  golden-crested  synagogue  on  the  Avenue,  a  phallic 
emblem  for  the  eyes  of  the  initiated,  stood  massive, 
erect,  well  within  view.  Pretty  children  played  sailors ; 
at  intervals  their  exigent  nurses  rescued  them  from 
a  watery  grave.  The  girl,  straight  to  virginal  prim 
ness,  swinging  a  scarlet  parosol,  went  on  slow  gliding 
feet  around  the  basin.  In  her  jade-colored  eyes  there 
was  the  sweet  faint  passion  of  a  June  morning;  she 
evoked  June  rather  than  May,  a  late,  not  an  early 
spring-tide.  She  was  in  gold  and  black  and  wore  a 
wide-brimmed  hat  of  black  straw.  Her  eyes  were  not 
large,  nor  yet  luminous;  smothered  fire  would  have 
been  the  verdict  of  a  portraitist.  Jewelled  eyes,  they 
were,  but  jewels  that  had  the  muffled  radiance  of  a 
topaz.  Introspective  her  glance,  sympathetic  and  not 
without  a  nuance  of  melancholy.  A  young  thing  not 
over  eighteen,  tender  but  suspicious,  proud  and  de 
pendent  on  those  she  loved,  Mona  went  into  the  park 
every  day  to  escape  the  oppressive  happiness  of  her 
home.  She  lived  with  her  parents.  Her  brother  was 
away  ten  months  during  the  year  at  college.  She  had 
not  many  friends  of  her  age  and  sex  because  she  was  the 
companion  of  her  father  and  mother.  She  adored 
them.  They  were  adorable;  the  mother  like  an  old 
English  painting  of  the  eighteenth  century;  the  father, 
a  scholar,  a  futile  fumbler  in  the  misty  mid-region  of 


PAINTED  VEILS  103 

metaphysic;  but  as  gentle  as  a  gentle  woman,  for  all 
women  are  not  so.  At  times  Mona  fled,  so  deep  was 
her  love  for  them.  She  stood  in  the  clear  soft  after 
noon  light,  more  brune  than  blonde,  yet  suggest 
ing  not  twilight  but  dawn.  Her  Celtic  name  modu 
lated  with  her  character — a  character,  fluid,  receptive, 
sceptical,  above  all,  pagan  in  its  worship  of  sun,  moon, 
stars,  and  fair  tempting  nature.  Her  tiny  beaked  nose 
sniffed  the  candid  air  crammed  with  May  odors.  She 
was  happy.  Not  a  masculine  shadow  had  projected 
itself  across  the  snowy  field  of  her  virgin  soul. 

"By  Jove!  that's  an  interesting  girl,  I'll  wager!" 
exclaimed  Ulick  Invern  to  his  companion,  who  replied: 
"Come  over  and  I'll  introduce  you.  She  is  my  sister 
Mona." 


IV 

They  strolled  to  the  Casino.  With  his  accustomed 
flair  for  character  Ulick  recognized  in  the  girl  something 
out  of  the  usual  run  of  Americans.  The  charmless 
Yankee  woman  he  had  encountered  to  his  discom 
fiture  from  the  moment  his  steamer  left  Havre.  She 
was  the  "life  of  the  smoking-room" — on  the  French 
line  ladies  are  permitted  to  invade  the  ship's  fumoir — 
and  he  soon  avoided  that  type.  But  he  found  her  on 
the  docks  at  New  York  and  she  fairly  swarmed  over 
the  hotel,  did  this  same  aggressive,  conceited,  too 
well-dressed  female.  In  Paris  he  had  seen  little  of 


104  PAINTED  VEILS 

his  ci-devant  countrymen.  He  never  visited  the  office 
of  his  father,  and  the  recurrent  advent  of  fresh  consuls 
and  their  wives  at  the  Embassy  left  him  unmoved. 
His  ideal  of  the  American  woman  was  the  figure  of 
his  mother:  exquisitely  tactful,  and  of  a  veiled 
charm.  And  he  enjoyed  in  Henry  James  the  portraiture 
of  the  refined,  if  somewhat  anaemic  order,  of  lovely 
spinsters.  But  the  raw  native  who  gadded  about  Paris, 
confidently  criticizing  everything  and  everybody — 
those  women  were  repugnant  to  his  sensibility.  Daisy 
Miller  was  a  reticent  aristocrat  in  comparison. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  Old- World  texture  of  her  manner, 
perhaps  it  was  a  brief  sight  of  the  exalted  soul  that 
peeped  out  of  her  timid  eyes,  perhaps — !  but  what 
reason  can  a  young  man  or  a  young  woman  give  for 
their  first  fugitive  predilections?  Ulick  met  Mona 
and  liked  her;  Mona  saw  Ulick  and  liked  him.  As 
Paul  Bourget  would  have  said,  they  then  and  there 
"amalgamated  their  sublimes,"  which  simply  meant 
that  they  were  two  birds  limed  by  nascent  love.  The 
sublimities  and  the  mingling  might  come  later. 

But  this  youthful  couple  did  not  pin  down  their 
sensations  to  an  artistic  formula.  They  chatted, 
laughed,  walked,  and  when  the  Casino  was  arrived 
at  they  sat  on  the  Terrace  and  Ulick  told  them  that 
the  spot  made  him  homesick  for  Paris;  Paris,  his 
patrie  psychique.  Mona  incredulously  smiled  yet 
wondered;  how  could  anyone  prefer  Paris  to  New 
York?  She  had  never  been  in  Paris.  Ulick  lightly 


PAINTED  VEILS  105 

reproached  Milton  for  having  kept  such  a  sister  locked 
up,  as  if  in  a  gaol.  Thereat,  the  theological  student 
chuckled.  Mona  was  free  as  a  swallow.  She  preferred 
the  company  of  her  parents  to  that  of  the  frivolous 
chits  of  her  own  social  circle.  Ulick  had  known  that 
the  Miltons  were  well-to-do  people  who  lived  without 
ostentation,  a  rapidly  vanishing  species  of  New  Yorkers. 
Again  he  looked  at  Mona,  again  their  gaze  collided. 
Her  eyes  shone.  They  are  the  eyes  of  a  rare  soul,  he 
commented  to  himself.  And  how  different  the  ex 
pression  from  the  calm,  objective  gaze  of  Easter. 
Toujours  Easter! 

"There  comes  Paul  Godard!  Lord!  with  that 
creature  Blanche  in  his  car.  Don't  stare,  Mona, 
please,"  begged  her  brother.  "Don't  be  stupid,"  she 
answered,  "you  dear  old  priest.  I'll  look.  The  woman 
won't  hurt  me."  Mona  measured  the  handsome, 
bold  dancer,  over-dressed,  bejewelled  and  resplendent 
in  a  picture  hat,  who  majestically  moved  up  the 
terrace  followed  by  Paul  and  the  maitre-d'hotel. 
Paul  pretended  not  to  see  Ulick,  and  Ulick  turned  the 
other  way.  He  wasn't  interested  in  Paul  or  his  con 
cubines,  though  he  still  recalled  with  a  sullen  rage  the 
caddish  behaviour  of  Godard  the  night  he  made  Easter 
half-drunk;  that,  and  the  inglorious  hat  episode  he 
could  never  forgive  nor  forget.  "So  he  didn't  sail, 
after  all,"  he  muttered.  But  if  he  was  indifferent,  the 
young  girl  was  not.  "Is  that  the  rich  Mr.  Godard  I 
read  of  in  the  newspapers?"  she  asked  Ulick  who 


106  PAINTED  VEILS 

couldn't  repress  a  slight  shudder  of  disappointment. 
She  reads  the  newspapers  like  any  other  American 
virgin,  and  she  speaks  of  money!  Hopeless,  all  these 
dove-eyed  maidens,  with  their  profiles  of  a  hawk; 
a  sweet,  domesticated  hawk,  a  hawk  all  the  same, 
ready  to  swoop  down — "  "Oh  let's  go  home  brother," 
broke  in  Mona,  irrelevantly.  She  had  sensitively 
noticed  the  inattention  of  her  new  friend  and  she  was 
wounded  without  giving  herself  any  reason  for  her 
slight  feeling  of  resentment.  They  went  away.  Ulick 
accompanied  them  to  the  gate  at  72nd  Street.  Mona 
gave  him  a  wan  smile  at  parting.  Milton,  as  usual,  was 
unaffectedly  hearty.  He  was  fond  of  Ulick  and  had 
made  a  vow  to  save  his  soul  from  the  eternal  bonfire. 
She  seemed  to  like  me  at  first,  said  Ulick  after  he  left 
them,  though  she  didn't  invite  me  to  call.  Oh  Lord, 
I  wonder  what  mischief  Easter  Brandes  is  up  to  at  this 
minute?  Her  name  revived  odious  memories.  Again 
that  Paul  Godard.  To  the  devil  with  the  exasperated 
poodle.  Ulick  wTent  to  the  Utopian  Club. 


Mona  Milton  was  what  the  French,  with  their 
feeling  for  nuance,  would  call  "fausse-maigre" ;  she 
gave  an  impression  of  slenderness  which  her  solidly- 
built  figure  contradicted.  She  was  partial  to  draperies 
and  that,  perhaps,  created  the  illusion  of  diaphaneity. 
Her  health  was  excellent.  Not  even  at  the  time  when 


PAINTED  VEILS  107 

women  are  'minions  of  the  moon'  did  she  relapse  into 
that  forlorn  flabbiness  noticeable  even  to  the  ordinary 
obtuse  male.  Her  mother  had  reared  her  in  the  old- 
fashioned  way  and  had  put  the  fear  of  God  in  her 
heart  (read:  human  respect  for  the  polite  conventions 
of  a  rapidly  disintegrating  social  hierarchy).  But  her 
father,  who  called  himself  agnostic,  had  quietly  pooh- 
poohed  his  wife's  solicitousness  regarding  the  little 
virtues.  Hedges  to  be  vaulted  if  needs  must,  he  told 
his  daughter,  the  chief  companion  of  his  long  tramps 
through  Central  Park,  when  it  was  a  green,  delightful 
retreat  from  the  city's  menacing  encroachment.  Truth 
is  stranger  than  morals,  he  also  said.  Mona  loved  the 
park.  Every  day  saw  her  reading  or  walking  through 
the  less-footed  by-ways.  For  her,  mornings  were 
mysteries.  She  would  sit  in  the  sun  for  hours,  a  book 
in  her  lap,  her  eyes  dreaming.  Her  sub-conscious  life 
was  struggling  for  self -recognition.  Her  ego  was 
transformed  after  puberty  announced  itself.  She  was 
an  orchestra  of  cells;  the  multiplicity  of  her  egos  as 
tonished,  yet  did  not  distress  her.  She  accepted  the 
new  stream  of  consciousness  in  her  that  had  burst  its 
barriers  and  painted  over  her  imagination  a  fresher, 
more  beautiful  world.  Of  physiology  and  psychology 
she  had  more  than  the  rudiments.  Sex  did  not  puzzle 
her,  only  its  cabined  seclusion  from  the  general  current 
of  daily  life.  Her  mother  had  been  frank  with  her 
since  she  had  reached  the  age  of  curiousness;  in  turn 
Mona  wras  frank  with  her  father.  She  asked  him 


108  PAINTED  VEILS 

questions  that  she  would  not  ask  her  mother  and  he 
answered  them  unhesitatingly.  He  believed  that 
insincerity  cloaked  a  multitude  of  stupidities.  One 
day  when  she  was  hardly  sixteen  she  said:  "Papa, 
why  do  I  love  dolls  so  much?"  "The  maternal  instinct," 
he  had  replied.  "Oh,  yes,  anybody  knows  that,  but 
why  am  I  different  from  other  girls?"  "Different,  my 
dear?"  "Yes,  different.  I  haven't  one  friend  who 
loves  dolls.  They  are  fond  of  dogs  but  laugh  at  me 
•when  I  dress  and  undress  my  darling  doll.  Lydia 
Fuller  says  I'll  be  married  at  eighteen  and  have  twins 
at  nineteen — maybe  sooner,"  added  Mona,  pensively. 
The  old  man  only  shook  his  head  and  resumed  his 
Schopenhauer. 

The  rearing  of  the  girl,  withal  superficial,  covered 
a  wide  variety  of  authors  and  subjects.  She  knew 
French  fiction  so  well  that  she  couldn't  become  in 
terested  in  the  hypocritical  half-way  house  of  English- 
writing  novelists.  What's  the  use  of  writing  about 
life,  she  complained  to  her  mother,  and  leave  life  out 
of  the  story?  The  scabrous  element  in  Gallic  light 
literature  amused  her,  but  she  preferred  Flaubert  to 
Paul  de  Kock,  Balzac  to  Zola.  Memoirs  enchained 
her  fancy.  The  utterances  and  actions  of  real  men  and 
women  appealed.  Casanova,  who  has  left  the  world 
its  most  frank  and  complete  autobiography,  was  for 
Mona  as  is  romance  to  other  girls  of  her  age;  Casanova, 
Benvenuto  Cellini  and  the  Memoirs  of  the  Due  de 
Saint-Simon.  Rabelais  she  dismissed  and  for  Benjamin 


PAINTED  VEILS  109 

Constant  and  Stendhal  she  only  entertained  mild 
respect.  She  admired  the  electric  energy  of  Julien 
Sorel  and  Mathilde  de  la  Mole,  but  they  left  her  cold. 
As  for  the  pessimists,  Senacour,  Amiel  and  them  that 
confide  to  diaries,  their  pen  dipped  in  their  own  salty 
tears,  she  spoke  contemptuously.  Weaklings,  all. 
What  if  they  did  write  charmingly?  She  longed  for 
virility;  that  spelled  charm  for  her.  The  more  violent 
pages  in  the  Old  Testament,  Shakespeare  and  Faust; 
but  she  held  the  revelation  of  the  New  Testament  in 
moderate  esteem.  Too  much  oriental  fatalism.  Too 
much  turning  the  "other  cheek,"  to  please  her.  The 
person  of  Christ  seemed  apochryphal.  Such  a  man 
couldn't  exist  twenty-four  hours  without  being  killed 
on  our  murder-loving  planet.  Notwithstanding  all 
these  contradictions  in  her  undeveloped  character, 
Mona  was  far  from  being  an  "advanced"  young  woman; 
indeed,  her  classmates  at  college  had  voted  her  des 
perately  old-fashioned;  worse — a  womanly  woman. 
Secretly  she  wished  that  her  soul  could  be  like  a 
jungle  at  night,  filled  with  the  cries  of  monstrous  sins. 
But  it  wasn't. 

She  continued  to  love  her  doll,  not  that  she  disliked 
cats  and  dogs  and  birds,  only  that  the  doll,  the  sim 
ulacrum  of  the  future  child,  touched  her  to  her  inner 
most  fibres.  She  had  the  brother-cult,  yet  she  loved 
no  one,  except  her  father,  so  much  as  the  absurdly 
big  French  doll,  the  last  of  a  long  line  dating  back  to 
her  babyhood,  that  slept  with  her  every  night.  The 


110  PAINTED  VEILS 

old  folks  were  at  first  amused,  then  edified  by  this 
stubborn  reaction  to  a  profound  instinct.  In  time 
they  became  accustomed  to  seeing  a  staring  wax 
effigy  on  the  pillow  of  their  daughter's  couch,  attired 
in  a  neat  nightdress  and  lace  cap.  Ah,  well!  had  said 
the  father,  it  is  a  premonitory  symptom,  yet  she  is 
happier  now,  dear  child,  than  she  will  be  with  her 
future  husband.  Considering  her  self-effacing  nature, 
the  reply  of  his  wife  was  rather  tart:  "If  you  read  less 
Schopenhauer  you  wouldn't  be  so  prejudiced  against 
my  sex.  To  hear  you  talk  one  might  suppose  that 
your  married  life  had  been  a  vale  of  tears."  To  which 
the  old  man  humbly  and  affectionately  replied:  "In 
stead  of  a  bed  of  roses,  as  it  is,"  and  surprised  his 
spouse  by  warmly  kissing  her. 

They  didn't  forbid  Mona  the  company  of  young  men 
but  she  made  no  attempt  to  meet  anyone.  Her  brother 
was  away  most  of  the  time  at  the  seminary  and  his 
friends  were  theological  students,  neuter  persons  she 
evaded  rather  than  despised.  Voluntary  eunuchs, 
enemies  of  the  very  source  of  life,  she  felt  uncomfortable 
in  their  presence,  as  she  would  have  been  embarrassed 
if  a  hermaphrodite  had  been  pointed  out  to  her.  The 
unnatural  was  merely  a  mediaeval  idea,  but  the  anti- 
natural  was  to  be  feared  and  avoided.  She  did  not 
say  this  to  her  brother,  who  in  her  eyes  was  a  saint, 
but  she  said  as  much  to  her  father  who  sympathised 
with  her.  Another  confusion  in  her  mind  was  the 
degrading  of  the  major  instinct  of  life — after  hunger; 


PAINTED  VEILS  111 

Reproduction.  If,  as  the  Bible  says,  fornication  is  a 
rank  sin,  why  do  a  few  words  mumbled  over  a  man  and 
woman  by  a  clergyman  or  magistrate  make  it  less  a 
sin?  It's  the  same  vile  act  isn't  it,  even  in  marriage? 
Her  mother  was  more  shocked  at  her  expression  than 
at  the  idea  which  prompted  it — an  idea  as  old  as  the 
hills.  "But  Mona,  people  don't  think  such  things, 
much  less  speak  them."  "They  do  mother.  There 
isn't  a  girl  in  the  world  who  hasn't  had  this  same 
thought,  though  she  may  keep  it  in  the  secret  cabinet  of 
her  mind."  Her  mother  shook  her  head  but  didn't  dare 
speak  of  sin,  or  redemption  or  the  holy  sacrament  of 
matrimony  instituted  by  the  Church  to  bless  the  most 
animal  of  the  functions,  to  lend  it  dignity,  to  create 
a  safeguard  for  the  children,  not  to  mention  the  fact 
that  this  sacrament  screens  the  shock  and  doubts  and 
hesitations  of  pure-minded  girls,  to  whom  physical 
union  with  a  man  would  be  otherwise  repulsive.  No, 
this  "theological  bric-a-brac"  as  Mr.  Milton  called 
the  tenets  of  religion,  his  wife  had  been  forbidden  to 
speak  of  to  her  children.  Her  son  was  to  her  a  sur 
prise,  like  a  swan  hatched  from  a  brood  of  ducklings, 
and  now  Mona  was  beginning  to  disquiet  her.  A 
good  girl,  a  loving  dutiful  daughter — nevertheless, 
disquieting  because  of  her  absolutely  natural  attitude 
toward  forbidden  themes,  so  natural  that  she  often 
embarrassed  her  mother. 

"Mother,"  she  had  abruptly  exclaimed  about  this 
time,  "Mother,  I  wonder  why  brother  is  so  inclined 


112  PAINTED  VEILS 

to  piety.  He  should  have  been  the  girl,  I  the  boy. 
Mother — I  am  beginning  to  believe  that  something 
was  wrong  in  your  marriage —  "Oh!"  ejaculated  the 
unhappy  woman,  who  didn't  know  what  terrible 
speech  would  follow:  "I  firmly  believe,  you  dear  old 
fraidcat  Mother,  that  papa  has  never  been  unfaith 
ful  to  you  since  you  two  darling  old  sillies  were  mar 
ried."  Mrs.  Milton  refused  to  unbend  during  an 
entire  evening. 


VI 

After  Ulick  had  given  his  hat  and  stick  to  the  garde- 
robe  he  walked  through  the  cafe  to  the  dining  room  on 
the  University  Place  side.  Martin's  was  his  favourite 
rendezvous.  The  cuisine,  the  cellar,  the  service, 
were  the  best  in  town.  Ulick  lived  at  the  Maison 
Felice,  but  liked  a  change  of  menu  and  venue.  He 
was  known  at  Martin's  and  was  soon  taken  to  a  window 
table  when,  astonished,  he  noted  his  immediate  neigh 
bor.  She  held  out  her  hand:  "Such  coincidences  do 
occur,  outside  of  novels,"  she  said.  He  sank  into  a 
seat  facing  her.  "May  I?"  he  begged.  She  nodded. 
Mona  was  fond  of  good  things  to  eat.  At  home  if 
the  cook  h#d  served  stewed  potato-peelings  her  parents 
would  have  meekly  swallowed  them.  They  had  little 
appetite  for  food  or  drink,  none  at  all  for  the  finer 
shades  of  cookery  for  the  gentle  art  of  the  gourmet. 
Mona  went  daily  into  the  kitchen  and  conspired  in 


PAINTED  VEILS  113 

company  with  the  cook;  therefore,  she  occasionally 
ate  something  that  had  flavour.  But  when  she  was 
hard-pressed  by  artistic  hunger,  as  she  called  it,  she 
walked  down  the  Avenue  to  9th  Street,  there  turned 
eastward  and  reached  Martin's,  always  in  a  famished 
condition. 

"You  haven't  ordered,  have  you,  Miss  Milton?" 
asked  Ulick.  She  shook  her  head,  negatively.  He 
beckoned  to  the  captain  of  the  dining-room  and  after 
some  whispering  a  waiter  was  instructed.  No  wine 
was  commanded,  neither  drank  wine.  Vichy  Celestins 
and  wonderful  coffee  with  cream  made  their  appear 
ance  in  company  with  French  rolls  and  butter,  fol 
lowed  by  a  variation  on  the  theme  of  eggs — oeufs 
a  la  Martin — then  a  filet  de  sole  au  gratin — and  a 
Chateaubriand  steak  with  a  Salade  Russe — good 
heavens,  mused  the  girl,  he  has  a  master-palate.  It 
was  true.  Ulick,  despite  his  fondness  for  mince  pie 
and  Philadelphia  scrapple,  could  not  endure  the  nation 
al  cuisine.  We  are  barbarians  compared  with  the 
French,  he  openly  asserted,  who  know  how  to  eat, 
drink  and  think. 

"And  now  my  dear  Miss  Milton,  I  shall  apologise 
for  my  rudeness.  I  never  asked  you  if  you  expected 
anyone,  but  took  for  granted  that  my  company  would 
be  agreeable.  I  ask  your  pardon.  How  are  you,  and 
how  is  your  very  good  brother?  Dear  old  Milt."  She 
was  all  animation. 


114  PAINTED  VEILS 

"I'm  glad  you  like  Milt.  I  adore  him.  What  a  pity 
he  is  going  to  be  a  priest."  Ulick  looked  surprised. 
She  coloured.  "I  mean,"  she  pursued,  "he  should  have 
picked  out  a  more  liberal  profession." 

"Religion  is  so  narrowing," — "Religion  is  an  ensemble 
of  scruples  that  impede  the  faculty  of  reason,"  he 
interrupted  in  sing-song  tones.  "Who  said  that?" 
she  quickly  asked.  "I  think  the  learned  Professor 
Salomon  Reinach."  "You  are  right  but  your  quota 
tion  is  incorrect."  For  the  third  time  that  morning 
he  was  surprised.  A  blue-stocking,  a  theologian  in 
petticoats;  perhaps  an  agnostic.  Yet  she  didn't 
seem  "modern"  or  of  the  over-cultured  type.  "What 
Reinach  wrote  is  this:  "Religion  is  a  sum  of  scruples 
which  impede  the  free  exercise  of  our  faculties."  She 
pronounced  this  little  speech  as  if  such  definitions 
were  the  daily  bread  of  her  discourse.  "Aren't  those 
eggs  delicious?"  he  asked.  He  was  nettled.  He  wished 
to  change  the  tide  of  conversation.  She  assented  and 
smiled  at  him  with  such  a  mischievous  smile,  both  a 
challenge  and  a  conciliation,  that  he  laughed.  She 
laughed,  and  she  extended  her  hand  to  him.  He  took 
it.  The  incident  became  a  memory. 

Her  hands  were  not  small;  shapely  and  capable, 
they  were  white  and  carefully  tended.  He  had  made 
a  study  of  the  hand.  Why  shouldn't  he?  A  pianist, 
a  writer,  who  hated  the  type-machine,  believing  that 
only  with  the  pen,  the  stylus,  could  a  man  create 
prose  and  poetry;  all  the  rest  is  commercial.  Yet  the 


PAINTED  VEILS  115 

hands  of  Mona  were  not  what  he  called  the  hands  of 
an  artist.  Their  forms  were  largely-moulded,  the 
fingers,  charged  with  character;  the  tips  were  not 
spatula-shaped.  His  curiosity  was  aroused.  They 
awaited  the  fish.  "Let  me  look  at  the  palm  of  your 
left  hand,"  he  pleaded.  She  showed  it  without  co 
quetry.  He  noted  the  deeply  graven  and  long  life 
line,  but  the  abnormal  development  of  the  Venus- 
hill  caused  him  to  ejaculate:  "Dio  mio!  you  must 
have  an  affectionate  disposition."  She  said  without 
a  suspicion  of  mock-modesty:  "I  love  children,"  and 
then  they  attacked  the  sole.  He  couldn't  help  admiring 
her  forthright  manner.  A  candid  girl.  Therefore  a 
good  girl.  And  how  interesting.  She  thought:  If 
he  doesn't  like  my  plain  speaking  he  isn't  the  man  for 
me.  Love  me,  love  my  doll,  she  whimsically  con 
cluded.  If  the  secrets  of  a  maiden's  and  youth's  souls 
could  be  spilled  on  the  table,  as  salt  is  sometimes 
spilled,  many  a  marriage  made  in  heaven  or  hell  would 
never  be  consummated.  For  ten  minutes  their  teeth 
were  busy. 

She  didn't  smoke  because  in  those  days  ladies  were 
not  supposed  to  know  the  taste  of  cigarettes.  There 
are  minor  drawbacks  in  every  age.  She  saw  his  long, 
nervous  fingers  with  their  suggestion  of  finesse,  of 
power,  saw  the  oval  face  and  the  clear-cut  features — 
his  profile  made  her  dream  of  the  profiles  of  decadent 
emperors  of  the  Lower  Empire;  saw  that  his  nose  and 
brow  modulated  in  the  Napoleonic  way,  a  common 


116  PAINTED  VEILS 

enough  trait  throughout  the  Midi  of  France;  saw  his 
sensual  lips,  and  simply  loved  the  kindly  glance  of  his 
heavily-lidded  blue  eyes;  blue  of  a  penetrating,  celes 
tial  intensity.  His  vitality  was  concentrated  in  his 
eyes,  which  were  always  speculative,  seldom  tender. 
Ulick,  thou  art  a  jewel!  she  murmured,  and  thereafter 
to  herself  named  him  Jewel.  (As  had  Easter,  before 
her). 

He  saw,  what  he  had  with  clairvoyance  called  an 
interesting  girl.  He  didn't  say  pretty  or  beautiful; 
sympathetic,  would  be  a  more  truthful  ascription. 
His  experienced  glance  roved  over  her  face  and  figure. 
He  measured,  as  would  an  architect,  the  latent  powers 
of  strength  and  resistance  in  her  muscular  conforma 
tion.  Not  a  skinny  bird,  anyhow,  he  said  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  He  is  undressing  me  now,  she  thought. 
If  he  were,  it  was  not  in  a  salacious  spirit.  Voluptuary 
as  he  was,  Ulick  didn't  feel  a  spark  of  erotic  emotion 
for  his  companion.  His  admiration  for  her  was  sex 
ually  disinterested.  She  hasn't  the  pull  of  sex  like 
Easter,  yet  I  don't  know — she  is  not  awakened. 

"Sir  critic,  when  you  have  made  all  the  specifications, 
registered  the  shortcomings,  won't  you  please  say 
something?  I'm  dying  to  hear  about  myself.  Milt 
has  told  me  of  your  ambitions.  I  wonder,  though, 
that  you  should  have  left  Paris  for  this  noisy  Tophet 
of  a  New  York."  It  was  his  turn  to  color.  The  damned 
girl  seemed  to  know  exactly  the  nature  of  the  stew 
simmering  in  his  mental  laboratory.  But  no  young 


PAINTED  VEILS  117 

man  of  spirit  needs  a  second  invitation  to  talk  about 
himself,  his  ways,  his  days,  his  mighty  ambitions. 
He  broke  loose  and  at  once  she  was  swirled  along 
on  the  swift  crest  of  his  eloquence. 

He  told  her  of  his  family,  of  his  Parisian  life,  of  his 
distinguished  friends,  of  Jena,  Weimar,  Liszt  and 
Nietzsche.  He  explained  why  he  had  selected  New 
York  as  the  best  vantage-ground,  the  best  waiting 
spot  from  which  to  wage  war  with  his  future  public. 
He  spoke  of  his  music.  He  spoke  of  his  physical 
strength.  She  interrupted  to  inquire  why  he,  Paris- 
born,  neither  smoked  nor  drank.  Surely  not  because  of 
puritanical  reasons.  He  violently  demurred;  then  in  an 
indiscreet  burst  of  confidence  he  related  the  reason 
why  Goethe  didn't  use  tobacco;  he  didn't  mince  words; 
she  understood,  but  didn't  blush,  as  another  girl 
might  have  done.  Tobacco,  he  ingenuously  declared, 
attenuates  the  virile  quality  of  a  man,  wine  is  also 
dangerous  no  matter  what  the  poets  sing.  Yes,  but 
what  will-power  is  yours,  she  commented.  He  ex 
panded  his  chest  and  straightway  stared  into  her 
eager  eyes.  Then  it  was,  for  the  first  time  since  they 
met,  each  looked  another  way.  They  had  both  seen 
things  not  set  down  every  day  on  the  human  slate. 
She  felt  positively  uncomfortable,  and  he  said  to  him 
self:  Steady  old  chap  is  the  mot  d'ordre.  She  is  Milt's 
sister ! 

"I  write  about  the  stage  because  I  can  no  longer 
endure  listening  to  music.  I  tried  my  hand  at  musical 


118  PAINTED  VEILS 

criticism  when  I  first  landed.  Now,  as  the  curtain 
goes  up  at  the  opera,  I  have  a  queer  feeling  in  the  pit 
of  my  stomach.  I  call  it  aesthetic  nausea.  To  hear 
over  and  over  again  the  same  old  arias,  the  same  bad 
singing,  and  then  the  stale  phrases  that  we  are  com 
pelled  to  write  after  each  performance — phew!  What 
a  waste  of  time,  what  a  re-chewing  of  banal  ideas. 
And  then,  the  receptive  frame  of  mind;  always  listen 
ing  to  other  men's  ideas,  or  the  lack  of  them.  Again 
I  say — what  a  sheer  waste  of  time  for  any  one  who 
wishes  to  be  individual,  to  create,  no  matter  how  slight 
the  performance."  He  paused  for  lack  of  wind.  "Go 
on,"  she  urged.  "The  theatres  are  pretty  bad,  but 
at  least  you  are  dealing  with  actuality.  Once  in  a 
while  a  play  comes  along  by  Ibsen,  and  then  you  are 
in  contact  with  the  stuff  of  life.  Music  is  technical, 
emotional  as  it  may  be;  but  just  try  to  write  of  it 
in  terms  of  emotion  and  your  pathos  is  soon  bathos. 
Pictures  are  easier  to  handle  because  they  resemble 
something  in  the  world.  Music  does  not.  It  is  dug 
out  of  our  sublimnal  self,  brought  to  the  surface  of 
our  consciousness  by  the  composer's  art — self-explorer 
is  a  truer  title  than  composer,  who  as  a  matter  of  fact 
decomposes  his  soul-states,  distils  his  most  precious 
essence  into  tone.  But  I  fear  I  bore  you — Miss  Mona." 
"Go  on,"  she  commanded. 

"Well  there  isn't  much  further  to  go  on,  I  am  glad 
for  your  sake.  I  soon  abandoned  music,  which  I 
love  all  the  better  for  not  being  forced  to  write  about 


PAINTED  VEILS  119 

it.  I  felt  strange  at  the  opera  house,  I  didn't  become 
closely  acquainted  with  my  colleagues,  so  I  was  glad 
when  the  "Clarion"  gave  me  the  berth  of  dramatic 
critic.  Now  I  can  fight  every  day  with  erudite  William 
Winter — Lord !  how  that  little  man  can  write  English — 
over  the  Ibsen  problem.  Wagner  is  accepted  here, 
yet  a  more  original  thinker,  Henrik  Ibsen,  is  slighted, 
is  even  called  immoral,  he  the  most  moral  of  dramatists. 
Let's  go  for  a  ride,"  he  exclaimed,  "a  beautiful  day 
wasted  over  sterile  aesthetics.  What  do  you  say — 
Miss  Mona?"  (That's  twice  he  called  me  Mona!) 
She  consented.  The  prospect  of  a  trip  through  the 
park  sitting  next  to  this  lively  young  man  pleased 
her.  "We  shan't  take  a  cab.  I  like  a  hansom  better. 
Don't  you  love  the  good  old  English  hansom  with 
the  slightly  shabby  but  always  sympathetic  driver 
wearing  a  battered  silk  hat  tipped  on  the  side  of  his 
disreputable  skull?  Besides  Miss  Mona — a  hansom 
is  Cupid's  chariot.  Let's  go."  When  Ulick  started 
in  earnest  he  was  irresistible.  He  hailed  a  hansom. 
They  hopped  in.  To  the  park ! 

VII 

"Haven't  I  been  rather  discursive?"  he  had  asked 
of  her.  "I  don't  think  so,"  she  had  curtly  contra 
dicted.  Forsooth,  she  didn't  think  that  he  had  been 
discursive.  She  was  rather  disappointed.  The  bril 
liant  verbal  fireworks  she  had  been  taught  by  her 


120  PAINTED  VEILS 

brother  to  expect  from  Ulick  had  fizzled — she  thought. 
It  was  only  that  night,  after  she  had  put  Dolly  to 
sleep,  that  she  assembled  her  memories  of  the  after 
noon  and  then  she  realized  the  conversation  might  be 
truthfully  described  as  discursive;  fragmentary  would 
be  a  better  word.  He  is  nice,  she  ruminated.  Now 
you  dear  naughty  dolly  don't  you  pretend  to  be  asleep 
when  I  see  one  of  your  eyes  watching  me  ...  little 
sneak,  I  believe  you  are  jealous.  .  .  Oh!  he  is  so 
nice  Dolly  .  .  .  She  buried  her  face  in  the  cool 
bed  linen — There!  I'll  whip  you  for  your  mean  jealousy 
— I'm  fond  of  Ulick — my  great  Jewel  of  a  man.  .  . 
Dolly's  head  was  lost  under  a  pillow.  Mona  fell  into 
a  dreamless  slumber.  .  .  She  said  nothing  next 
morning  to  her  mother  about  the  impromptu  luncheon 
and  casually  remarked  that  she  would  go  for  a  walk 
in  the  afternoon,  not  far,  she  added.  She  didn't  think 
it  necessary  to  tell  that  she  was  going  to  the  Metro 
politan  Museum,  a  few  blocks  away,  there  to  meet 
Ulick  Invern,  who  had  promised  to  show  her  Manet's 
"Boy  with  a  Sword"  and  to  describe  the  personality 
of  the  painter,  with  whom  he  had  been  acquainted 
in  Paris.  It  was  to  be  a  glorious  afternoon  devoted 
entirely  to  art.  Ulick  was  so  artistic  and  she  so  igno 
rant.  .  . 

VIII 

The  modulation  into  an  easy-going  friendship  was 
not    difficult   for   these   young   people.      An    autumn 


PAINTED  VEILS  121 

without  parallel,  in  its  days  of  mellowness  mingled 
with  invigourating  frosts,  passed  on  rapid  pinions. 
They  did  not  bid  Old  Time  to  pause  in  his  flight; 
the  rhythms  of  their  ardent  blood  were  too  insistent. 
They  ceased  to  reason.  Their  affective  life  ruled.  In 
the  case  of  Ulick  there  was  a  throw-back  to  his  Anglo- 
Saxon  origins.  His  Parisian  training  and  aptitudes 
melted  in  the  gentle  heat  of  new  experiences.  I  am 
an  American,  after  all,  he  often  told  himself,  there 
fore  sentimental,  and  sentimentality  and  sensuality 
are  never  far  asunder.  She,  on  the  contrary,  is  a 
cerebrale,  neither  tepid  nor  tempestuous.  Yet  those 
moments  when  she  seems  on  the  verge  of  hysteria — 
I  mean,  when  she  goes  off  on  those  gales  of  laughter. 
She  is  oversexed,  no  doubt  about  that.  She  would 
rather  discuss  sex-problems  than  eat.  A  curious  com 
bination.  So  is  her  brother.  He,  too,  likes  to  talk 
on  forbidden  subjects.  People  who  have  no  outlet 
for  their  emotions  are  bound  to  brood  over  them  and 
to  unbosom  themselves  without  realizing  it.  Steady, 
Ulick,  steady !  I'm  not  in  love  or  I  shouldn't  be  analyz 
ing  my  feelings.  Is  she  a  trifle  smitten?  That  way 
lies  self-conceit.  But  she  does  like  to  be  in  my  company, 
and  I  prefer  hers  to  any  woman's — yes,  even  to  Easter's 
who  never  gave  anyone  a  chance  to  breathe,  so  busy 
was  she  with  herself.  What  egotists  these  mortals 
be!  Puck  should  have  said.  I  wonder  what  Easter 
is  doing  now?  That  wonderment  had  become  a  leading 
motive  with  him  of  late.  He  bitterly  reflected  that 


122  PAINTED  VEILS 

since  the  dramatic,  the  fatal,  day  in  New  Hampshire, 
she  had  not  permitted  him  the  slightest  familiarity. 
She  had  kissed  him  on  the  steamer  the  day  of  her 
departure,  but  then  she  had  kissed  Tom,  Dick  and 
Harry  with  equal  readiness,  though  she  hadn't  whis 
pered  to  them:  "You  dear  old  Jewel."  The  memory 
of  her  voice,  low,  mysterious,  tender,  still  fired  his 
blood.  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  sensual  man.  Be  virtuous 
and  you'll  be  bilious!  He  pondered  the  wise  adage. 
Is  physical  love  only  a  matter  of  hygiene?  he  asked 
himself.  Tumesence;  detumescence,  as  Havelock 
Ellis  says.  It's  high  time  I  went  out  on  the  trail 
after  a  few  scalps.  I'm  getting  a  bit  stale. 


IX 

That  winter  they  met  nearly  every  day.  But  she 
didn't  invite  him  to  call  at  her  home.  He  couldn't 
ask  a  reason  for  this  strange  omission.  My  intentions 
are  perfectly  honourable.  I've  told  her  I  wouldn't 
marry  the  best  woman  even  though  she  were  the  last 
of  her  sex  on  the  globe.  I've  also  told  her  that  a  man 
should  never  live  under  the  same  roof  with  his  mis 
tress;  in  that  case  what  would  be  the  difference  be 
tween  marriage  and  concubinage;  one  would  be  as 
stupid  as  the  other.  Poor  Emma  Bovary  found  out 
from  experience  that  men  and  women  bound  by  any 
bond  live  in  the  land  of  platitudes.  I  told  her — heaven 
forgive  my  candor! — that  I  changed  mistresses  every 


PAINTED  VEILS  123 

three  months,  that  the  instant  I  found  myself  falling 
in  love  with  one  I  got  a  new  one.  Boasts  by  a  boaster. 
What  is  it  that  interests  nice  girls  in  irregular  lives? 
I  wonder.  The  inside  of  a  brothel  is  not  so  interesting 
as  an  abbatoir,  where  as  Huysmans  used  to  say — 
love  is  slain  at  a  stroke,  and  the  stroke  usually  costs 
the  man  a  twenty-franc  piece.  But  these  girls  don't 
realize  the  crudeness  of  such  lives.  Mystery.  That's 
the  attraction.  The  unknown.  Silly,  miserable  women 
who  go  to  bed  the  same  night  with  a  half  dozen  men — 
is  that  romantic!  Demi-vierges,  Marcel  Prevost 
called  the  American  girls,  for  some  reason  best  known 
to  himself.  Yet  I've  met  respectable  married  women 
who  went  to  Paris  crazy  to  see  the  sights,  that  is, 
certain  sights.  The  puberty  of  adultery?  Maxim's 
soon  bored  them.  From  the  organized  obscenities 
of  Montmartre  they  went  to  the  "peep-holes"  only 
to  see  another  show  staged  for  imbeciles  with  a  filthy 
curiosity.  What  is  it?  Mona,  dear  decent  child,  agrees 
with  me  that  promiscuous  married  life  is  the  most 
deadly  blow  of  all  to  romance.  She  simply  won't 
recognize  evil  as  evil,  only  as  vulgarity — worse,  as 
stupidity.  I  absolutely  agree  with  her  in  that  matter. 
But  it  was  not  such  plain  sailing  for  Mona  through 
this  unfamiliar  and  uncharted  land  of  emotion.  She 
had  a  hard  time  with  that  temperament  of  hers.  I'm 
glad  they  give  it  such  a  name  as  temperament,  she 
said.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  calls  love  a  mixture  of 
pruriency  and  curiosity,  which  suggests  a  horrid  itch. 


124  PAINTED  VEILS 

Young  men  have  an  easier  time  than  girls,  who  must 
sit  and  sizzle  while  down  in  some  sub-cellar  of  their 
being  they  hear  the  faint  growlings  of  the  untamed 
animal.  Once  unleashed  it  jumps  all  barriers,  and 
then — well,  then,  the  fat's  in  the  fire.  Mona  shivered, 
a  pleasing  shiver  of  anticipation.  Why  not  bravely 
go  to  her  parents  and  confess  that  she  loved  Ulick? 
He  was  a  presentable  young  man,  of  social  standing, 
with  abundant  means — evidently;  for  outside  of  his 
critical  work  he  seems  to  do  little  except  to  spend 
money,  not  a  negligible  quantity,  with  her — and, 
finally,  he  was  liked,  and  liked  very  much  by  Milt. 
Some  perverse  devil  lurking  in  the  depths  of  her  being 
bade  her  stay  silent.  Was  it  romance,  sloppy,  slimy 
sentimentality,  after  all?  She  couldn't  say.  She  only 
knew  that  she  wanted  to  keep  her  secret,  that  she 
didn't  wish  to  marry,  that  she  loved  to  be  near  the 
big,  good-hearted  young  chap  with  the  blue  eyes;  yes, 
why  not  tell  the  truth — she  was  wild  to  be  loved  by 
him.  Everything.  A  young  woman  brought  up  in 
the  practice  of  all  the  proprieties — save  church  going — 
by  a  mother  who  idolized  her!  Nevertheless,  she  was 
ready  to  throw  her  bonnet  over  the  windmill  like  the 
veriest  street  slut.  Where  her  maidenly  reserve! 
She  had  none  when  self-confessing.  Ulick  had  said 
to  her,  I  think  you  were  brought  up  on  the  wrong  kind 
of  reading.  Do  you  force  me  to  stick  to  Hannah  More 
or  Self -Help?  she  had  impertinently  demanded.  You 
might  do  worse.  Bernard  Shaw  is  poor  nourishment 


PAINTED  VEILS  125 

for  a  girl  with  too  much  imagination,  he  retorted. 
Wrong  again,  she  said,  I've  absolutely  no  imagination. 
I'm  only  enthusiastic.  And  you  have  said  that  without 
enthusiasms  life  would  be  unsupportable. 

Thus  far  the  outward  expression  of  their  mutual 
affection  had  been  conventional.  They  went  to  picture 
exhibitions,  the  horse-show  at  the  Garden  saw  them 
many  times,  and  also  opera  and  theatre  matinees; 
but,  strictly  speaking,  they  were  never  alone.  He 
always  left  her  at  her  house  door.  There  were  no  twilit 
corridors,  darkened  vestibules,  no  sudden  corners  in 
entries  where  they  might  embrace.  He  did  smuggle 
her  hand  into  his  at  the  theatre  when  the  lights  were 
lowered;  during  entr'actes  they  were  a  well-bred  couple. 
Opportunity,  which  is  the  thief  of  virtue — sometimes — 
hadn't  appeared  on  the  scene.  Occasionally,  when 
walking  after  a  copious  luncheon,  she  would  complain 
of  enervation  and  her  eyes  would  swim  with  mystic 
languour.  He,  fearing  that  she  might  think  him  vir 
tuous,  boasted  of  laborious  nights  of  vice.  She  seemed 
to  believe  him  and  secretly  applauded  his  conduct. 
No  wonder  young  men  can  bob  up  with  such  smug 
faces  when  they  call  on  nice  girls.  Oh,  yes,  they  are 
quite  virtuous.  No  fear  of  their  misbehaving  them 
selves.  Their  other  "lady"  friends  have  made  them 
safe — housebroken,  she  added  with  a  smile  over  the 
phrase.  I  believe  grim  law  causes  more  suffering  than 
license.  When  she  communicated  this  original  idea 
to  Ulick  he  frankly  asked  her: 


126  PAINTED  VEILS 

"See  here,  Mona,  do  you  ever  expect  to  have  a  child?" 
"I'm  crazy  for  one,  for  two" — and  she  related  the  story 
of  Dolly.  He  was  at  once  sympathetic,  slightly  to 
her  surprise.  "It  reminds  me,"  he  said,  "of  two  French 
friends  of  mine.  Married,  but  no  children,  though 
they  were  much  desired.  For  several  years  they 
played  at  parenthood,  they  pretended  they  had  a 
boy  and  a  girl,  very  young,  very  troublesome,  but 
beloved  by  them.  They  played  this  strange  little 
comedy  for  several  years.  They  never  went  out  in 
the  daytime  without  the  "children."  They  held  long 
conversations  with  them.  They  reproved,  praised, 
admired,  caressed  them.  At  night  when  they  visited 
the  theatre  or  had  a  dinner  they  left  their  precious 
imaginary  offspring  in  the  care  of  an  equally  shadowy 
nurse,  burdening  her  with  all  manner  of  instructions. 
And  now  comes  the  funny  part  of  my  story.  A  real 
child  was  born,  a  few  years  later,  a  second  followed, 
and  for  all  I  know  they  may  have  had  half  a  dozen 
since  then.  But  those  children  of  flesh  and  blood  were 
not  treated  with  the  same  sort  of  love  the  dream- 
children  had  received" — "Dream-children?"  she  re 
peated  her  eyes  insistently  seeking  his,  "what  a  pretty 
expression.  Did  you  make  it  up?"  "Certainly  not. 
Haven't  you  read  Charles  Lamb's  description  of  his 
dream-children,  the  children  he  never  fathered — only 
dreamed  of?"  She  didn't  thank  him  for  his  explana 
tion,  but  mused.  "I  should  like  to  have  some  dream- 
children."  "How  many,  five  or  six?"  "No,  two  would 


PAINTED  VEILS  127 

be  enough,  a  boy  and  a  girl.  I  have  already  a  real 
child,  didn't  I  tell  you?"  He  pretended  to  be  shocked. 
"A  real  baby  you  have?"  "Yes,  my  Dolly.  She's  a 
troublesome  charge.  If  I  could  only  have  two  dream- 
children"—  "Who  is  to  be  the  father?"  "You,"  she 
replied,  and  her  naive  gravity  impressed  Ulick.  "Won't 
you  be  the  father  of  our  twins?"  Her  voice  was  low, 
pleading,  almost  intense.  They  were  sitting  in  the 
park  on  an  April  afternoon.  He  caught  one  of  her 
wrists.  "By  God,"  he  exclaimed,  "if  I  could  only  be 
lieve  you  meant  it."  "I  do  mean  it,  dear  Ulick.  We 
shall  never  marry  yet  we  may  have  children — dream- 
children,  symbols  of  our  friendship."  "And  what  in 
the  world  do  you  mean  by  saying  that  we  shall  never 
marry?"  His  accent  was  one  of  astonishment  and  no 
little  pique.  She  gazed  demurely  at  her  well-shaped 
hands. 

"Didn't  you  say  that  you  had  to  change  mistresses 
every  three  months?  And  what  about  the  obscene 
promiscuity  of  married  life!"  He  went  into  a  bad 
humour  at  once  and  impatiently  answered:  "Yes,  I 
did  say  it  and  you  know  enough  of  life  to  know  it  was 
all  brag.  I've  no  mistresses — "  "What!  no  mis 
tresses,  not  one?"  she  blankly  inquired.  He  didn't 
turn  a  hair.  "Not  one.  I  love  only  one  woman  in 
the  world  now.  It's  Mona  Milton.  I  needn't  tell 
her  that."  "No,"  she  replied  without  affectation. 
"We  do  care  for  each  other.  Yet,  Jewel,  why  harp 
on  marriage?"  He  endeavoured  not  to  show  his 


128  PAINTED  VEILS 

surprise.  To  atavism,  and  to  the  Bartlett  side  of  his 
ancestry,  must  be  set  down  the  reason  for  this  sur 
prise,  and  a  faint,  though  well-defined,  feeling  of 
dissent.  Really,  a  young  girl  should  not  say  such 
things  to  a  young  man  no  matter  how  modern,  how 
advanced  she  is;  no  matter  if  she  is  fond  of  him;  and  the 
curious  part  of  the  thing  is  that  Mona  does  not  boast 
being  advanced  or  modern,  nor,  indeed,  anything  but  a 
real  girl. 

She  noted  his  confusion  and  helped  him  over  the 
stile  of  perplexity.  "Ulick,  let's  have  dream-twins. 
I'll  assume  all  the  responsibility,  all  the  cares,  only 
let's  have  them — now."  He  glanced  superstitiously 
about  him  as  if  he  feared  her  speech  would  be  over 
heard.  And  her  home  not  ten  minutes  away!  She 
divined  the  cause  of  his  embarrassment  and  grasping 
his  hand  in  her  soothing  clasp  she  asked  with  the 
naivete  of  a  childish  mother:  "What  shall  we  call 
them,  our  darlings?"  "That's  important,"  he  declared, 
humouring  her.  "Let  me  see.  The  boy?  I  have  it. 
Shamus.  My  full  name  in  baptism  is  Ulick  Shamus 
Fitzgibbon  Desmond  Invern.  It's  a  mouthful.  I 
am  the  namesake  of  my  uncle,  my  father's  elder  brother, 
now  the  head  of  our  house  and  present  Marquis  of 
Invern  and  Desmond.  Yes,  there's  a  Marquis  in  the 
family,  a  poverty-stricken  one  at  that,  poor  but  proud. 
But  it  will  do  me  no  good,  for  he  has  a  quiverful  of 
children.  My  cousin,  St.  Alban,  his  heir,  is  my  age, 
a  regular  prig.  So,  dear,  it  will  be  Shamus,  if  you  don't 


PAINTED  VEILS  129 

mind."  She  nodded.  Shamus  would  do.  Now  for 
the  girl.  He  again  made  the  nomination.  "She  is 
called  Grane."  Mona  rebelled.  "Why  such  an  unusual 
name?"  "Don't  you  remember  the  white  horse  of 
Brunnhilde  in  'Siegfried'?"  "Certainly,  and  I  also 
remember  the  white  horses  in  Rosmersholm  which 
foretold  trouble."  "I  like  Grane,  and  you  will  like  her, 
too."  He  was  so  firm  that  she  acceded.  "All  right, 
dear,  and  now  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  pair 
since  they  are  born?"  He  took  out  his  watch  and 
started  up.  "Past  five,  and  I've  a  first-night  on.  Good 
bye,  darling  Mona,"  and  he  kissed  her  upon  the  mouth 
for  the  first  time  in  the  twilight  and  with  a  moon  like 
an  effaced  silver  coin  looking  at  them  over  the  syna 
gogue.  It  was  a  consecration,  she  whispered;  my 
first  kiss.  Then  aloud:  "Good-bye — darling — I'll 
take  Shamus  and  Grane  home,  the  dears  might  take 
cold.  Good-bye  Ulick,  my  husband  and  father  of  our 
children."  As  he  strode  away,  not  daring  to  look  back, 
he  ruminated:  That's  a  case  of  supressed  maternal 
instinct.  Mona  ought  to  be  married  or — or — steady 
boy !  Else  you  are  in  it  either  way  you  jump. 

X 

The  new  Ibsen  play  enjoyed  a  stormy  premiere. 
After  he  had  sounded  its  praise  and  expressed  his 
personal  opinion  that  critics  who  thought  to  the  con 
trary  were  imbeciles  not  worth  the  powder  to  blow 


130  PAINTED  VEILS 

them  hellward,  Ulick  went  to  the  Utopian  Club 
there  to  relax.  He  ran  into  Edgar  Saltus  as  he  entered. 
That  writer  was  then  at  his  brilliant  apogee.  He 
had  published  The  Anatomy  of  Negation,  The 
Philosophy  of  Disenchantment,  The  Truth  About 
Tristram  Varick  and  Mr.  Incoul's  Misadventure, 
and  was  enjoying  with  his  ironic  humor  the  row  raised 
by  the  moral  bell-boys  of  criticism  over  his  incomparable 
style  and  incomparable  unmorality.  Ulick  had  been 
his  admirer  in  Paris  and  told  the  aristocratic 
author  so  in  no  measured  manner.  Saltus  liked  the 
young  man  and  encouraged  him.  "Naturally,  you 
should  have  remained  in  Paris.  Here  you  commit 
spiritual  suicide.  I  don't  care  what  De  Gourmont 
advised.  You  have  the  soul  of  a  cosmopolitan.  There 
is  no  nationality  in  art  any  more  than  there  is  demo 
cratic  art.  Demos  dislikes  art  as  much  as  he  does  a 
bath-tub.  Soap  and  social  equality  are  akin.  His 
self-constituted  champion,  Walt  Whitman,  who  wrote 
some  stunning  head-lines,  not  to  mention  his  catalogue 
of  the  human  genitals,  is  not  welcome  to  Mr.  &  Mrs. 
Demos.  Longfellow  about  fills  their  lyric  cup  to  over 
flowing.  However,  I  was  about  to  write  you.  I've 
an  invitation  for  you."  Then  he  went  into  details. 
Ulick  was  delighted.  "Of  course,  I'll  accept  the  in 
vitation.  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  me.  What 
a  jolly  party  it  will  be.  I'm  getting  staler  and  staler 
in  this  town  of  my  mother's.  That  party  may  bring 
back  a  whiff  of  dear  old  Paris."  They  shook  hands 


PAINTED  VEILS  131 

and  parted.  Ulick  went  to  the  Maison  Felice,  across 
Madison  Square  park,  and  after  he  had  gone  to  bed 
he  couldn't  sleep;  yet  the  noise  of  poker-chips  in  the 
next  room  didn't  keep  him  awake.  It's  those  damnable 
dream-brats,  he  irritably  exclaimed  and  though  it 
was  long  past  two  he  donned  a  dressing  gown  and  sat 
down  to  his  desk  in  the  music-room. 


XI 

Either  I've  made  a  mistake  in  coming  to  New  York, 
or  else  I'm  going  soft  in  the  upper-story,  he  said  aloud, 
as  he  opened  his  portfolio,  crammed  with  papers, 
some  scribbled  over,  some  blank,  some  carefully  folded. 
There  is  Edgar  Saltus,  who  knows  life  in  a  broader 
sense,  perhaps  better,  than  De  Gourmont — he  says 
I  made  a  mistake.  Is  Paris  my  real  home,  and  am  I 
deracinated  as  Maurice  Barres  calls  it,  and  only  trans 
planted  in  America?  Ah!  abominable  music-critics' 
jargon,  how  glad  I  am  to  have  escaped  your  adjectives 
and  repulsive  technical  terms.  That  is  no  way  to  find 
one's  individuality,  overpraising  vain  screaming  so 
pranos,  voluptuous  contraltos — I  wonder  why  con 
traltos  are  more  temperamental  than  sopranos?  worst 
of  all  those  monkey  tenors,  with  their  lascivious 
bleatings  like  goats  in  rut.  Why  do  women  admire 
the  miserable,  whitewash  whinneying  of  tenor  singers? 
Baritones  and  basses  are  at  least  virile.  Whether  or 
not  the  tenor  is  castrated,  he  sings  like  a  eunuch.  No, 


132  PAINTED  VEILS 

they  adore  the  eunuch  voice  in  preference.  Thank 
Apollo,  I'm  through  with  the  lot,  though  dramatic 
criticism  isn't  much  better.  In  the  concert-world  one 
at  least  listens  to  good  music.  A  good  play  in  New 
York  is  as  rare  as  a  well-written  critique.  I'm  afraid 
that  criticism  is  a  poor  proving-ground  for  one's 
intellectual  development.  Let  me  see  what  I've 
written  the  last  few  months.  Only  notations.  This 
romantic  rot  must  stop.  Mona — oh,  Mona  is  all 
right,  but  the  waste  of  time,  the  waste  of  emotion. 
What  of  those  factors? 

No  women!  Balzac  had  sternly  warned  Theophile 
Gautier.  The  Emperor  Honore  did  not  practise  what 
he  preached.  Compact  of  sex  himself  he  was  ever 
preoccupied  with  petticoats.  La  crise  juponniere 
overtook  him  once  a  week  and  oftener.  Ulick  recalled 
an  anecdote  of  the  great  man  when,  after  he  had  suc 
cumbed  to  the  blind  fury  of  eroticism — a  chamber 
maid,  or  somebody  feminine  had  crossed  his  path — 
he  went  about  the  boulevards  bemoaning  to  his  friends : 
"Jai  perdu  un  livre,  j'ai  perdu  un  livre!"  his  theory 
being  that  an  orgasm  valued  an  entire  story,  and  in 
his  case  it  may  have.  Save  your  seed  for  nobler  pur 
poses  than  copulation.  That  is  the  wisdom  of  the 
sages.  And  the  transposition  so  painfully  accomplished 
by  the  saints  of  all  times,  climes  and  creeds,  has  ever 
impressed  mankind  as  a  deed  heroic.  Women  secretly 
admire  the  chaste  man.  He  is  a  sum  of  ineluctable 
forces.  Men  deride  the  Josephs  and  Parsifals,  not 


PAINTED  VEILS  133 

crediting  them  with  self-control.  But  that  is  nonsense, 
asserted  Ulick.  A  priest  here  and  there  succumbs,  but 
as  a  rule,  and  notwithstanding  the  atrocious  martyr 
dom  of  unsatisfied  legitimate  desires,  the  sacerdotal 
man  emerges  from  the  trial  a  conqueror.  As  for 
women,  they  are  the  self-contained  sex.  No  one  knows 
precisely  what  happens  in  the  alchemy  of  their  emo 
tions.  Some  burn  their  smoke,  others  blaze  coram 
publico;  but  the  majority  hide  this  sort  of  light  under 
a  bushel  of  hypocritical  reservations. 

I  mustn't  waste  myself  in  little  spasms  then.  How 
about  correspondence?  "c,a  forme  le  style,"  Balzac 
told  Gautier,  and  rather  grudged  him  that  concession. 
Ulick  smiled.  He  knew  his  master-weakness,  his  vice. 
He  knew  that  when  the  flesh  moved  him  the  spirit 
took  a  holiday.  No  self  abnegation  for  him,  no  trans 
position  to  his  cortical  cells  of  his  sexual  longing.  Like 
a  bull  he  saw  red  everywhere.  It's  a  pity  all  the  same, 
he  sighed.  I  should  marry,  raise  a  family  and  be  un 
faithful  to  my  wife  not  more  than  twice  weekly.  The 
programme  of  the  majority  of  good  fathers,  good 
husbands.  And  the  American  man  is  the  worst  of 
the  lot.  A  regular  Turk  plus  a  religious  humbug. 
And  some  clergymen!  Town  bulls.  Over  in  Brooklyn 
they  put  up  statues  to  their  piety — and  virility.  Bon! 
They  should.  A  womanly  woman  is  admirable,  and 
she  is  not  rare.  A  virile  man  is  as  rare  nowadays  as 
a  chaste  one. 


134  PAINTED  VEILS 

What  an  enormous  faculty  of  inattention  I  possess! 
I  wander,  I  stray  into  the  queerest  pastures.  What's 
this  I've  written?  Philanthropy  is  inverted  egotism. 
True.  All  the  immortal  turpitudes  are  to  be  found 
in  the  ranks  of  the  philanthropists.  A  pecuniary  heresy. 
The  latrines  of  my  soul  were  overflowing  in  Paris. 
Am  I  purer  in  New  York?  Here  we  buy  our  ecstasy, 
rent  that  brief  syncope  called  passion.  What's  the 
difference?  It's  the  debut  that  counts.  The  fury  of 
enlacement  leaves  me  a  cynic.  I  wonder  if  women  feel 
the  same?  That  eternal  triangle  of  theirs.  And  the 
pensile  penguin  of  the  eternal  masculine.  Wicked 
W7alt  has  in  The  Children  of  Adam  made  some 
stunning  phrases  about  the  procreative  organs.  People 
who  rave  over  his  rotten  poetry  wouldn't  read  him  if 
he  hadn't  been  an  exhibitionist  in  print.  No  one  with 
a  particle  of  taste  seduces  a  young  girl  nowadays; 
they  wait  till  she  is  married — it  saves  time  and  trouble. 
"Sir,"  roared  old  Doctor  Johnson,  "maidenheads  are 
for  ploughboys."  Oh,  the  delicious,  pernicious  con 
versation  that  depraves.  Thought  deforms.  Seduc 
tion  by  starlight  sometimes  ends  in  a  police  court  with 
a  fornication  and  bastardy  charge.  Anyhow,  we  must 
have  our  psychic  satisfactions,  else  spiritual  atony. 
WTiy  this  mania  of  certitude  in  the  choice  of  a  phrase? 
Pure  dandyism  of  style.  Goethe  said  in  his  T«uth 
and  Poetry,  "All  herein  is  true;  nothing  exact." 
That  is  fine  in  its  implications.  Stained-glass  socialism ! 
Most  of  it  is  nothing  else.  Anything  to  keep  out  the 


PAINTED  VEILS  135 

daylight  of  reality.  Like  the  tigress  that  has  tasted 
human  flesh  and  blood  so  is  the  woman  who  knows 
man ;  neither  are  satisfied  but  with  human  prey.  That's 
why  widows  remarry  or — :  why  seduced  girls  "fall" 
again — though  Ulick  smiled  at  that  silly  word — why, 
convents  are  peopled  by  disillusioned  souls — and  there 
is  a  waiting  list! 

Why  does  man  crave  self-abasement?  Pascal 
is  an  example.  Caesar  wept  when,  after  watching 
a  ballet  of  beautiful  girls  dance,  he  saw  them  killed. 
But  he  didn't  weep  from  pity,  but  with  ecstasy  because 
of  their  beauty.  The  aesthetic  temperament.  Love 
is  not  a  sentiment,  it's  a  sensation.  The  Japanese 
know  that.  An  orchestra  of  sensations  in  which  the 
silences  are  sonorous.  What  an  Iliad  of  Imbecility 
is  the  history  of  mankind.  My  idealistic  anxiety  over 
my  affairs  is  proof  positive  of  their  pettiness.  We 
never  escape  the  prison  of  self,  though  we  attempt 
to  project  our  personality  into  the  thoughts  of  another; 
this  process  is  called  sympathy.  But  a  thought  and  a 
thing  are  identical.  There  is  no  thought-stuff  different 
from  thing-stuff,  says  William  James.  We  can  never 
know  anything  outside  of  ourselves.  Oh!  the  sour 
hair,  the  dark  breath  of  these  psychologists!  In  the 
cuisine  of  love  there  are  flavours  for  all  tastes.  Else 
ugly  women  wouldn't  be  sought  after.  Are  there 
any  ugly  women?  my  brother  Oswald  used  to  say 
that  once  a  pillow  over  their  face  all  women  were 
alike  to  him.  Discriminating  person,  Oswald.  His 


136  PAINTED  VEILS 

mind  must  be  a  slop-jar  of  the  infinite.  How  mirific 
to  mingle  our  essences.  What  immaculate  perception 
is  required  to  pick  the  precise  woman  with  whom  to 
"amalgamate  our  sublimes."  The  vagabondage  of 
my  soul  through  the  universe,  fluid,  profound,  and 
choral,  is  a  gift  denied  most  men  and  women.  Yet  it 
is  at  my  threshold  for  the  asking.  My  conceit  is 
character — I  think;  yours  is  merely  apoplectic.  The 
lassitudes  of  love  are  divine.  The  human  plant  does 
not  best  flourish  in  the  sunlight  of  success;  it  needs 
darkness,  sin,  sorrow,  crime,  to  bring  it  to  a  rich 
maturity.  The  ignoble  dung  of  miseries  demands  the 
spade  of  adversity.  And  Flaubert  has  said  that  the 
ignoble  is  the  lower  slope  of  the  sublime.  Which  is 
consoling.  As  Rabelais  would  remark:  I  am  an 
abstractor  of  quintessences. 

I  once  longed  to  unhook  the  sun  from  the  wall  of 
the  firmament  and  now  I  would  fain  crawl  into  a 
certain  sultry  crevice.  The  prism  of  desire  deceives 
the  Jasons  in  search  of  the  golden — or  brunette — 
fleece.  I  have  made  love  to  virtuous  women  who  gave 
me  the  sensation  of  the  force  and  felicity  that  attends 
the  commission  of  a  rape.  And  the  pure  woman  who 
teases  is  worse  than  a  streetwalker.  A  course  of 
anatomy  on  a  pillow,  says  a  fellow  cynic.  Ah!  the 
rapture  of  her  little  solitudes,  her  ivory  tower,  her 
mimique  in  the  "naked  war."  In  this  life  all  the  rest 
is  gesticulation  or  secular  sorrow.  Ideas  may  be  domes 
ticated  like  cats.  The  pathos  of  distance — memorable 


PAINTED  VEILS  137 

phrase  of  Nietzsche — boasts  its  obverse,  the  bathos 
of  propinquity — Walter  Littlefield's  mot.  Some  men 
look  like  a  carefully  pared  thumb-nail;  perhaps  they 
are;  anyhow,  it's  better  than  being  a  noble  debris. 
Lawyers  earn  their  bread  in  the  sweat  of  their  brow 
beating.  Fais  aux  autres  ce  que  tu  ne  veux  pas  qu'ils  te 
f assent!  Pity  is  inutile.  Every  one  of  our  actions  is 
an  addition.  Why  then  worry  over  free-will?  Not  to 
animal  life,  nor  to  machinery  must  we  go  when  studying 
the  human  heart,  but  to  vegetables  and  flowers.  I 
believe  that  romantic  feelings  are  much  less  common 
than  we  imagine;  the  vast  majority  of  the  race  mimic 
the  gestures  of  the  stage  and  fiction.  Food,  shelter, 
fornication,  the  fight  for  daily  existence — these  are 
the  prime  levers;  not  sentiment.  We  fool  ourselves. 
We  take  our  religion  and  sentiment  in  small  doses. 
There  are  souls  of  prey  like  birds  of  prayer.  Few  women 
are  in  harmony  with  the  moral  landscape.  What 
music  is  comparable  to  the  exquisite  sighs  of  a  woman 
satisfied?  The  orchestra  of  her  soul  and  sensations 
plays  a  triumphant  fortissimo,  and  what  a  cruel, 
piercing  note  is  the  supreme  spasm;  the  entire  gamut 
of  dolor  is  compressed  therein. 

We  owe  the  world  a  living,  not  t'other  way  round. 
How  I  loathe  Gounod's  Ave  Maria  with  its  slimy 
piety,  slimy  echoes  from  the  brothel.  This  vibrion 
of  music,  Gounod,  never  touched  masterpieces  with 
out  blighting  them.  Think  of  the  Bach  prelude  accom 
panying  the  song.  Think  of  mighty  Faust  maimed, 


138  PAINTED  VEILS 

tortured  to  make  an  operatic  holiday.  The  Truth, 
so-called,  is  not  necessarily  tonic  to  all  souls.  Free- 
thought  is  never  free;  sometimes  it  is  not  thought; 
and  it  is  usually  inverted  dogmatism.  The  woman 
who  gives  an  elderly  man  the  illusion  of  virility  will 
always  be  sought  after.  Man  is  the  only  animal  who 
can  imagine  what  is  not.  We  think  backwards,  but 
live  forwards,  said  the  Scandinavian  mystic,  Soren 
Kerkegaard.  There  are  no  illegitimate  children; 
babies  are  always  born  legitimately.  Ask  the  women. 
What  medical  pathos.  Is  it  not  better  to  fall  into  the 
hands  of  a  murderer  than  into  the  dreams  of  a  lustful 
woman?  That's  Nietzsche.  He  never  made  the  blun 
der  of  lying  down  in  the  dirty  straw  of  the  sex- trough. 
That's  why  he  wrote  as  if  with  a  diamond  on  a  slate 
of  crystal.  Yet  he  could  say  in  the  same  breath  that 
chastity  is  a  virtue  with  some,  with  the  majority  almost 
a  vice.  Every  man  knows  that  a  woman  has  a  dozen 
different  ways  to  make  him  happy,  and  a  hundred 
to  make  him  unhappy.  Nous  nous  promenions  nos 
prejuges!  Sounds  like  Stendhal,  doesn't  it?  I  imitated 
him  when  I  paraphrased  it  in  English:  Let  us  promen 
ade  our  prejudices.  Just  as  I  gave  Baudelaire  the  credit 
of  a  line  he  never  saw,  though  one  I  believe  he  would 
have  approved.  Here  it  is:  Lo!  the  Lesbians,  their 
sterile  sex  advancing.  Curious,  isn't  it,  how  Baudelaire 
and  Swinburne  loved  to  write  about  Lesbians.  The 
influence  of  the  Sapphic  legend,  I  fancy,  not  alone 
because  of  the  sweet  inversion. 


PAINTED  VEILS  139 

Ah  me!  groaned  the  young  man,  as  the  light  filtered 
through  the  curtains,  here's  another  day,  and  I've  been 
wasting  good  sleep  over  this  twaddle  instead  of  being 
in  bed.  But  I  couldn't  sleep.  Too  much  black  coffee. 
It  doesn't  matter  what.  Only  I  wonder  how  many 
of  these  phrases  are  my  own.  I  don't  believe  in  original 
ity.  George  Moore  is  quite  right  when  he  derides 
ideas;  their  expression  is  the  only  worth  while  to  the 
artist  prose.  Truth — error?  This  side  of  the  Pyrenees — 
and  the  other  side.  Map-morality.  He  paused,  and 
ruefully  reflected:  Nor  can  I  say  much  for  the  formal 
quality  of  these  phrases.  Ah!  the  precious  pagodas  of 
prose,  pagan  and  subtle,  built  by  those  master  artificers, 
Renan,  Anatole  France,  Huysmans,  Barres.  Never 
theless,  Stendhal,  who  wrote  drily,  whose  books  are 
psychological  labyrinths,  is  their  ruling  sun,  one  that 
shines  in  a  frosty  heaven  of  his  own  fashioning.  De 
Gourmont — a  prober  of  the  soul.  Bourget,  another, 
though  more  mundane,  decorative.  Maurice  Barres 
is  a  metaphysical  Chopin  in  his  feeling  for  nuance. 
He  promenades  his  incertitudes  through  many  pages 
of  perverse,  cadenced  prose.  But  perverse.  He  has 
now  deserted  his  ivory  tower  for  another  illusion  like 
his  "culte  du  moi;" — nationalism,  patriotism,  as  opposed 
to  egoism  and  cosmopolitanism.  Well,  I'm  following 
in  his  footsteps,  trying  to  become  a  sturdy  American 
citizen  in  my  native  city — where  I  wasn't  born.  I'll 
stick.  I  like  mince-pie,  baseball  and  a  good  rough 
neck  prize-fight.  I  must  be  a  real  Yankee. 


140  PAINTED  VEILS 

As  for  these  notes — heaven  help  any  reader  if  I 
ever  make  of  them  a  chapter  in  a  book.  That  book ! 
Fiction  or  criticism,  or  both?  The  novel  as  a  literary 
form  is  stale.  I  should  like  to  write  a  story,  not  all 
empty  incident,  nor  yet  all  barren  analysis.  Neither 
Henry  James,  nor  old  Dumas — I'm  not  flying  high, 
am  I? — but  one  in  which  the  idealogies  of  Barres  and 
the  concrete  narrative  of  De  Maupassant  would  be 
merged.  A  second  Dickens,  a  second  Thackeray 
are  inconceivable.  A  soul-biography  framed  in  har 
monious  happenings — Ah!  what  an  ideal  is  Walter 
Pater  who,  when  his  critical  prose  plays  second-fiddle 
to  his  fiction,  will  be  called  the  master-psychologist 
of  them  all.  Marius,  Imaginary  Portraits,  Gaston — 
those  are  unapproachable.  Pater  has  revealed  to  us 
the  rarest  of  souls.  He  achieves  ecstasy  in  a  prose- 
music  never  sounded  since  the  Greeks.  As  Tristan  is 
to  Aida,  so  Marius  to  all  fiction — oh,  but  now  I'm 
going  off  my  handle  again,  grumbled  Ulick.  Vanity 
Fair  and  Pickwick  are  good  enough  for  me,  even  if 
I  do  admire  Balzac,  Flaubert,  Stendhal,  Merimee 
and  the  Russians.  The  man  who  doesn't  read  Pickwick 
once  a  year  is  fit  for  treason.  If  only  Dostoievsky,  the 
greatest  psychologist  since  Balzac,  had  mastered  the 
compression  of  Turgenev?  What  a  scooper  of  souls. 
There's  too  much  descriptive  padding  in  modern 
novels,  too  many  landscapes,  not  enough  characteriza 
tion.  I  don't  mean  descriptive  characterization — 
the  clothes,  the  gait  and  the  eternal  simper  of  the 


PAINTED  VEILS  141 

pulchritudinous  gum-chewing  heroine — but  a  search 
ing  characterization  that  not  only  paints  your  man 
without,  but  also  within.  Think  of  Julien  Sorel  in 
Red  and  Black.  Not  the  master  that  is  Tolstoy  could 
better  Stendhal.  A  detestable  character?  Admitted, 
but  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  vitality  of  his  char 
acters,  the  validity  of  his  portraiture?  Too  much 
cluttered-up  with  futile  things  our  novel  reminds  me  of 
a  drawing-room  which  you  can't  see  because  of  the 
furniture  or  the  bric-a-brac,  so  crowded  is  it  with 
everything. 

To  avoid  conventional  chapter  transitions,  to  write 
swiftly  with  weight,  emotion,  also  succinctly ;  to  cram 
every  inch  of  space  with  ideas  as  well  as  action — the 
fiction  of  the  future — all  this  I  fear  is  not  in  abundance. 
Henry  James  is  the  man  who  may  solve  the  difficulty. 
Flaubert  swore  that  the  characters  should  reveal 
themselves  by  their  acts,  and  loathed  long-winded 
analyses,  though  he  abused  his  powers  of  description. 
It  is  his  narrative  that  is  the  pride  and  despair  of  his 
successors.  Henry  James  says  character  is  plot,  but 
plot  is  not  character.  That's  my  notion.  And  Cardinal 
Newman  was  also  correct  when  he  gently  insinuated 
that  no  one  could  make  psychology  easy  reading.  He 
didn't  live  long  enough  to  read  William  James.  Lord, 
Lord!  And  we  go  afield  to  burn  incense  under  foreign 
nostrils  and  here  we  can  boast  of  two  such  brothers 
of  genius  as  William  and  Henry  James.  Magnificent 
genius.  But  to  bed.  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  confused  thinker. 


142  PAINTED  VEILS 

I  wonder  what  Easter — no  I  mean  Mona — is  doing 
now?  Encore  la  femme!  He  fell  asleep  and  dreamed 
of  a  strange  blonde  creature,  all  fun  and  fire  and  flame. 


XII 

Ulick  was  shown  into  a  room  filled  with  carbon  photo 
graphs  by  a  coloured  butler  in  sober  livery.  It  was  an 
ante-chamber  on  the  first  floor  of  a  large,  old-fashioned 
house  on  a  side-street  off  the  Avenue  somewhere  in 
the  thirties;  he  forgot  just  where.  When  he  entered 
the  atelier,  huge  in  size,  he  was  greeted  by  a  half  dozen 
men  he  knew;  some  he  had  chummed  with  in  Paris; 
one,  Robbie  Sanderson — the  Bullrush,  he  was  nick 
named — had  been  an  intimate  of  Oswald  Invern's. 
He,  too,  was  a  painter.  The  host,  Ned  Haldane, 
called  the  Zephyr,  because  he  was  so  fat  and  light  on 
his  feet,  welcomed  the  newcomer,  as  did  big  Stanley 
the  sculptor  and  popular  man-around-town.  It  was 
a  group  congenial  to  Ulick.  All  were  graduated  from 
the  Parisian  art  treadmill;  men  who  took  a  liberal 
view  of  life,  men  without  puritan  morals  and  with 
charming  manners. 

"We  are  not  all  here  yet,"  proclaimed  the  Zephyr, 
"but  I  hope  soon  will  be.  We  are  only  to  be  a  dozen." 
"A  baker's  dozen,"  corrected  Stanley,  "for  there's 
Jim  the  butler."  "Oh,  no,  my  boy,  Jim  isn't  to  do 
any  butlering  in  this  room  tonight.  He'll  be  busy 
in  the  cork-room  with  the  fizz.  Besides  he  is  a  respecta- 


PAINTED  VEILS  143 

ble  married  man  and  we  musn't  make  him  forget  his 
dusky  spouse."  The  Zephyr  laughed.  "Are  you  going 
to  give  us  another  pony-ballet  tonight?  What's  the 
lark,  Ned?"  asked  Robbie  Sanderson.  "Never  you 
mind,  lad,  be  patient  and  just  stick  to  the  cocktails. 
What — you  won't  drink  anything?"  pursued  Haldane 
when  Ulick  refused.  He  seemed  puzzled,  as  if  he  were 
about  to  blurt  out,  "Then  what  the  devil  did  you  come 
for?"  but  he  smiled  and  bowed.  He  liked  the  looks 
of  the  young  aristocrat  sponsored  by  Edgar  Saltus 
and  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much  from  friends  in 
Paris.  The  bell  rang.  A  message  from  Saltus  begging 
off.  Illness  the  excuse.  "I  bet  he's  working  on  the 
chapter  of  a  novel — he's  not  sick,"  laughed  Haldane. 
Ulick's  face  was  long.  The  Bullrush  clapped  him  on 
the  back  and  reassured  him  by  whispering,  "Don't 
worry,  Ulick.  There  will  be  lots  of  fun.  You  won't 
be  lonely.  Girls!"  The  painter  significantly  winked. 
Again  the  bell  rang — furiously.  The  Zephyr  went 
out  and  received  noisy  salutes.  Evidently  belated 
guests.  Ulick,  now  thoroughly  bored,  looked  around 
him. 

The  studio  was  not  particularly  inviting;  it  was 
almost  bare.  No  pictures,  a  few  easy  divans,  the  floor 
covered  with  rugs  of  fabulous  weave — he  recognized 
that — and  nothing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  no  tables, 
no  preparatory  symptoms  of  a  banquet,  much  less  a 
saturnalia.  Tapestries  adorned  the  walls.  The  doors 
were  draped.  He  was  disappointed  at  the  absence 


144  PAINTED  VEILS 

of  Saltus  and  annoyed  with  himself  for  coming.  He 
did  not  join  the  men  clustered  about  the  buffet.  He 
felt  isolated  and  was  mentally  casting  about  what 
excuse  would  serve  him  to  escape,  when  the  room  was 
invaded  by  the  gang.  There  were  introductions — 
not  many.  The  crowd  belonged  to  one  family,  the 
Seven  Arts.  And  they  were  at  home.  Drinks  speedily 
disappeared  down  parched  gullets.  There  was  a  punch 
bowl,  and  early  as  was  the  hour  the  air  was  heavy 
with  cigarette  smoke.  Haldane  clapped  his  hands. 
Silence.  Jim  and  his  fat  wife  entered  carrying  a  small 
table.  Then  another,  and  another,  till  six  were  placed 
around  the  room,  close  to  the  walls.  Each  table  was 
set  for  two  persons.  Flowers,  silver,  napery  and 
porcelain.  Hurrah!  came  from  a  dozen  throats.  As 
usual  Ned  Haldane  had  royally  spread  himself.  An 
ticipation  floated  in  the  air.  After  a  minute's  con 
ference  with  the  butler  the  master  of  ceremonies  bade 
him  good  night.  "And  now  get  out  Jim,  and  don't 
show  your  shiny  face  till  noon  tomorrow."  Jim  grinned 
and  withdrew.  He  knew  the  ropes.  Haldane  cried: 
"Gentlemen,  please  be  seated.  The  comedy  is  about 
to  begin."  Then  he  blew  a  silver  whistle. 

Folding-doors  opened  and  there  slowly  defiled 
through  them  a  band  of  beautiful  girls,  bearing  silver 
platters.  These  girls  were  quite  naked  save  for  a 
scarf  which  depended  from  their  shoulders,  wound 
under  their  breasts  and  traversed  their  thighs.  Blonde 
and  brunette;  all  the  intermediate  flesh-tints.  There 


PAINTED  VEILS  145 

were  a  dozen  and  not  one  was  more  than  twenty. 
Their  hair  was  filleted  and  their  feet  in  sandals.  A 
dazzling  vision  from  some  old  Greek  processional 
cult,  thought  Ulick  as  he  clapped  his  palms  in  company 
with  his  companions.  "My  God,  I'm  hungry,"  roared 
Robbie,  and  the  laughter  was  deafening.  "Listen 
to  the  gourmand,"  commented  the  Zephyr.  "Here 
I've  gathered  the  finest  choir  of  virgins  he  ever  saw 
and  the  beggar  yells  for  food.  What  guts  you  boast, 
Rob."  The  silver  platters  held  hors  d'ceuvres  of 
quality.  No  sakuzka  at  a  Russian  dinner  could  show 
so  many  exotic  delicacies.  With  these  appetizers 
were  tiny  glasses  of  aperitives.  The  virgins  vanished, 
only  to  reenter  with  fresh  dishes.  No  soup  was  served. 
Oysters  and  shell  fish.  Birds.  Salads.  One  half  the 
band  carried  bottles.  Champagne  of  the  dryest  sort. 
Ulick  was  hungry  enough  to  forget  that  he  was  being 
waited  upon  by  a  plump  blonde  nude  angel  and  ate 
as  unconcernedly  as  if  she  were  a  plain  waitress, 
clothed  and  from  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire.  Pari 
sian  training  hath  its  uses.  The  candles  in  sconces 
at  the  side  were  grateful  to  the  eyes,  the  rich  yet  sub 
dued  tones  of  the  tapestry  and  Persian  rugs  evoked 
a  harmonious  atmosphere.  To  the  memory  of  Ulick, 
furnished  with  images  of  European  picture-galleries, 
there  came  Venetian  episodes,  festal  suppers,  and  the 
mellow  debaucheries  of  Tintoretto's  days  and  the 
days  of  the  Doges.  Sensualist  as  he  was  he  exper 
ienced  a  slight  sensation  of  satiety. 


146  PAINTED  VEILS 

They  had  reached  the  cognac  and  were  now  smoking, 
gabbling.  His  table  companion  was  the  Bullrush 
who  already  felt  his  wine.  He  saluted  the  virgins  by 
their  names,  and  when  he  forgot  them  he  invented 
new  ones;  sometimes  his  inventions  weren't  tasteful. 
One  girl,  fatter  than  the  others,  he  called  rumpsteak 
and  patted  her  when  she  passed.  But  it  was  a  well- 
trained  orchestra;  not  by  the  movement  of  an  eye 
brow  did  she  notice  his  rudeness.  After  a  brief  inter 
lude,  during  which  every  one  bawled  or  guzzled,  there 
was  heard  the  premonitary  tinkling  of  little  bells. 
The  twelve  virgins  emerged  in  Indian  file;  they  had 
changed  then*  scanty  costume;  they  no  longer  wore 
sashes.  Instead,  sleigh-bells  were  fastened  to  their 
ankles,  and  to  the  insistent  clicking  of  castanets  they 
danced  the  Dance  of  the  Seven  Devils.  This  spawn 
of  Satan,  these  devil's  daughters,  had  been  drilled 
in  the  technique  of  the  ballet  infernal.  Monotone 
of  castanets  and  tufted  footfalls  framed  rhythmic 
obscenities.  At  times  Ulick  gasped,  and  he  had  been 
in  Oriental  brothels  where  sex  is  become  a  delirium. 
The  Cteis  was  appropriately  worshipped.  They 
sprawled  and  postured,  they  reared  their  polished  pos 
teriors  in  porcine  rhythms,  as  if  to  invite  their  brethren, 
who  ringed  them  with  applause,  urging  them  to  auda 
ciously  lascivious  acts.  The  air  was  charged  with 
cigarettes,  the  acrid  smell  of  wine  and  odor  di  femina. 
Ulick's  head  began  to  ache. 


PAINTED  VEILS  147 

Suddenly  from  languourous  weavings,  from  legs  and 
arms  in  unholy  embrace,  the  current  changed  to  crazy 
gallopings.  The  dancing  mania  seized  the  men,  all 
except  the  Zephyr,  who  leaned  against  a  wall  and 
coolly  regarded  the  spectacle,  surely  not  a  novel  one  to 
him.  Ulick  was  caught  by  the  plump  blonde  and  fur 
iously  whirled.  She  was  an  enticing  houri  with  gold- 
coloured  eyes  and  scarlet  lips — rouged.  Her  breath 
was  extra-dry.  He  turned  his  head  away  as  she  re 
peatedly  kissed  him.  But  the  heated  curves  of  her 
finely  modelled  torso  made  him  a  helpless  prisoner. 
Sweetness  exhaled  from  her.  Young,  pretty,  absolutely 
depraved,  she  had  fancied  the  handsome  youth  who 
sat  so  still  and  haughty,  coldly  refusing  her  libations 
and  unconsciously  frowning  when  Robbie  Sanderson 
pinched  her  cheeks.  She  drank  with  the  others  each 
time  they  went  out  to  the  service-room,  and  she  found 
her  tongue  as  the  night  wore  on  in  frenzied  intoxica 
tion.  The  men  were  in  their  shirtsleeves.  Everyone 
sang.  The  heat  and  noise  were  terrific.  And  all  this 
pagan  revelry  in  a  drab,  respectable  quarter  of  New 
York!  No  matter,  Ulick  breathlessly  exclaimed,  it's 
a  relief  from  the  accursed  hypocricy  of  puritanical 
Yankeedom.  Again  the  whistle  sounded.  A  lull 
followed.  The  girls,  their  smooth  bodies  glistening 
with  moisture,  slipped  away.  A  fresh  attack  was  made 
on  the  wine  stacked  in  ice-pails. 

"What's  up?"  asked  a  jolly,  white-bearded  old  rep 
robate,  a  great  swell,  whose  granddaughter  had  "come 


148  PAINTED  VEILS 

out"  that  winter  at  a  debutante's  ball  of  exceeding 
splendour.  Haldane  smiled.  "Wait!"  he  begged. 
However,  no  one  seemed  to  care.  The  intermezzo 
proved  a  breathing-spell.  Ulick  debated  whether  he 
would  be  committing  an  offense  against  good  manners 
if  he  deserted.  He  could  pretend  to  go  into  the  ante 
room — but  there  was  a  hush.  A  trestle  was  borne  in 
by  the  twelve  virgins.  Upon  it  was  a  monstrous  pie, 
a  fabulous  confection,  the  crust  ermine- white,  like 
the  souls  of  the  votive  maidens,  icy  as  their  virtue, 
and  surmounted  by  an  iridescent  plumage  of  flowers. 
The  pagan  priestesses,  who  with  difficulty  carried  this 
offering  to  Ceres — or  was  it  Bacchus! — had  once  more 
changed  their  costumes;  each  wore  a  dainty  liberty 
cap  in  tricolor.  They  sang,  and  their  voices  were 
heavy  with  wine,  passion  and  incipient  catarrh.  At 
a  signal  they  placed  their  burden  upon  the  middle 
rug,  then  encircled  it.  Someone  clapped  hands.  The 
top  of  the  pie  was  thrown  off,  birds,  doves,  canaries 
and  nightingales,  flew  out  in  every  direction  seeking 
shelter  and  piteously  piping  to  the  flappings  of  their 
wings.  A  shining  child  of  exquisite  beauty  arose  in 
the  centre  of  the  pie  and  made  graceful  weaving 
motions.  She,  too,  was  newly-born.  Her  breasts 
were  lilliputian,  tender,  rose-colored.  Her  evasive 
hips  proclaimed  precocious  puberty  and  Jason  himself 
would  not  have  become  inflamed  over  further  search  for 
the  toison  d'or.  As  a  picture  she  is  admirable,  thought 
Ulick;  as  a  spectacle  decidedly  suggestive.  He  was 


PAINTED  VEILS  149 

wrong.  There  was  not  the  slightest  evocation  of  evil 
in  the  posed  gestures  of  this  pretty  maid;  the  evil 
lay  in  the  lewd  imaginings  of  the  men,  blase  from 
indulgence,  brain-sick  with  wine,  their  nerves  taut 
from  morbid  imaginings.  The  Zephyr  went  to  the 
sacrificial  pastry  and  lifted  the  pink  darling  to  the 
floor,  then  cradling  her  in  his  arms  he  disappeared 
behind  the  arras  to  the  choral  accompaniment  of  his 
jeering  guests.  The  storm  burst.  A  tornado  of  twirl 
ing  flesh,  the  atmosphere  punctured  by  shrieks  of 
laughter,  and  growlings  of  wild-men.  It  became  too 
much  for  Ulick  and  he  begged  his  girl  to  desist.  She 
had  sunk  on  the  floor  and  imploringly  grasped  his 
hand.  Kneeling,  he  told  her  to  dress  and  he  would 
go  home  with  her.  For  some  reason  his  proposition 
pleased.  She  went  to  the  retiring-room,  he  to  get 
his  own  things.  Their  presence  was  not  missed  on 
the  carnal  battlefield. 

"What's  the  difference?"  he  asked  himself  in  disgust 
as  he  found  his  top-coat  and  sat  down  to  wait  for  the 
girl,  "what's  the  difference  between  this  crowd,  cul 
tured,  artistic  men  and  pretty  sluts,  and  the  ugly 
howling  fanatics  up  in  New  England?"  Inevitably  the 
image  of  Easter  arose  in  his  slightly  smoky  brain. 
What  tremendous  minutes  they  had  been  when  he 
held  her  close  to  him  in  the  mystic  blackness;  held  and 
possessed  her.  The  present  was  but  the  mimique  of 
a  monkey-cage.  No  enchantment  of  the  senses  be 
yond  optical  titillation.  Without  strong  drink  such 


150  PAINTED  VEILS 

carnivals  of  turpitude  appal.  He  almost  regretted  the 
champagne.  He  hadn't  long  to  wait.  The  girl  ap 
peared,  slightly  tipsy,  but  very  appealing  in  her  inno 
cence — for  her  youth  made  her  innocent,  notwith 
standing  her  frivolity.  He  recognized  her  with  diffi 
culty,  so  genteel  her  externals.  A  picture-hat  shaded 
her  baby  face.  She  was  in  evening  dress,  ivory -coloured 
silk  cut  low  revealing  a  young  bosom.  Charming, 
said  Ulick,  and  how  much  more  provocative  her  charm 
when  properly  clothed.  "Oh,  Ulick,  you  are  such  a 
dear  to  wrait  so  long.  Let's  go  home.  I  love  you 
already."  Drunk  or  sober,  she  spoke  with  the  accent 
of  truth.  As  they  went  out,  the  door  opened  by  the 
discreet  butler,  his  features  as  impassive  as  an  under 
taker's,  big,  red-haired  Stanley  spied  them  and  joy 
ously  shouted  after  them:  "Good-bye,  Ulick.  You've 
picked  a  winner!  Dora  is  a  darling.  Look  out  for  the 
newspaper  buzzards.  There's  a  bunch  of  them  at 
the  corner.  They  will  try  to  flash-light  you!"  As 
the  street  door  closed  behind  them,  a  night-hawk 
drove  to  the  curb.  Ulick  bundled  Dora  in  and  asked 
her  the  address.  Up  on  Lexington  Avenue  somewhere 
in  the  nineties.  A  tall  apartment  house.  The  driver 
nodded,  and  turned  his  horse's  head  eastward.  Foot 
steps  were  heard.  Ulick  peeped  through  the  back 
glass.  "It's  the  newspaper  men  and  some  policemen. 
I  hope  they  won't  pull  the  place."  "Never  fear !  the 
Zephyr  knows  how  to  butter  their  bun!"  replied  Dora, 
snuggling  close  to  him.  "No  cops  will  ever  enter  that 


PAINTED  VEILS  151 

house,  but  I  suppose  the  newspapers  will  print  the 
shocking  news.  They  never  got  in  yet,  but  they  will 
tell  what  happened  just  the  same.  In  their  minds." 
And  then  she  promptly  fell  asleep,  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  She  smelt  of  champagne.  Another  wasted 
night,  he  sighed,  as  the  ramshackle  cab  rattled  through 
the  empty  avenue,  gray  dawn  thrusting  its  cold  nozzle 
into  the  dreary  city-scape.  He,  too,  began  to  doze.  .  . 

XIII 

Through  muddy  dreams  he  struggled  into  half- 
consciousness.  He  fought  with  naked  spectres  for 
the  possession  of  Mona.  There  were  centaurs  but 
they  battled  among  themselves.  He  ran  through 
endless  vistas  of  magnificent  halls,  as  full  of  flowers 
as  a  hothouse,  and  as  he  ran,  himself  naked,  the  flowers 
became  alluring  nude  women,  each  with  a  pie  and 
gluttonously  eating.  It  was  a  nightmare  full  of  mare's 
nests.  Nothing  happened,  yet  every  moment  was 
fraught  with  tragedy — the  tragedy  of  indigestion. 
Ulick  struggled.  He  put  out  a  hand.  It  touched 
human  flesh,  a  face,  a  nose.  His  chest  was  oppressed 
by  a  strange  weight.  Something  living  lay  across 
him,  the  owner  of  the  face.  He  could  feel  regular 
breathing.  Releasing  an  arm  he  rubbed  his  eyes 
trying  hard  to  locate  himself.  Who  the  woman  so 
closely  embracing  him?  A  woman  without  perad venture 
of  a  doubt.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  awak 
ened  in  the  company  of  a  stranger;  tou jours  la  femme! 


152  PAINTED  VEILS 

Such  happenings  are  not  unusual  in  the  life  of  adven 
turous  youth.  If  he  had  been  a  drinking  man  he  could 
have  understood  his  slippery  memory.  Drinking? 
Wine?  There  was  a  distinct  scent  of  stale  alcohol 
about  him,  and  then  he  realized  that  it  was  the  hot 
breath  of  Dora.  He  gently  lifted  her  head  and  placed 
it  on  the  pillow.  She  murmured,  nothing  intelligible. 
Ulick  greatly  desired  to  know  the  time,  greatly  de 
sired  to  bathe,  dress  and  escape.  It  is  an  instinct  of 
a  healthy  animal  that  as  soon  as  it  has  coupled  with 
its  female  it  hastens  away  to  sleep  elsewhere.  Homo 
sapiens  invented  affection,  and  then  followed  sentimen 
tality.  He  got  out  of  bed  without  disturbing  the  girl. 
The  room  was  in  semi-obscurity.  Tip-toeing,  he 
reached  one  of  the  heavily-curtained  windows.  Peeping 
out  he  saw  that  it  must  be  midday,  or  later.  What 
to  do?  He  tried  several  door-knobs,  finally  found  him 
self  in  a  bath-room  where  he  speedily  switched  on 
light.  His  clock  told  him  a  quarter  past  eleven,  but 
it  had  run  down.  Some  one  tried  the  door  and  asked: 
"Are  you  up  dearie?  What  time  is  it,  I  wonder? 
Oh!  my  poor  head!  I  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  or  I'll 
go  crazy."  Dearie!  It  was  the  classic  phrase  in  all 
its  perfection,  consecrated  by  the  generations  of  women, 
thought  Ulick,  and  he  called  out:  "All  right,  Dora 
I'll  be  with  you  in  two  minutes." 

But  if  he  was  in  prime  condition  after  a  cold  dip  and  a 
rub,  his  lady  friend  was  not.  The  dainty  Dora  of  the 
bacchanale  had  given  place  to  a  girl  with  puffy  eyelids, 


PAINTED  VEILS  153 

discoloured  complexion,  bloated  cheeks,  sagging  mouth, 
bad  breath  and  tarnished  glance.  She  was  suffering, 
and  hardly  took  time  to  twist  her  abundant  hair  into 
shape.  Withal,  a  charming  creature,  as  she  stood  in 
the  daylight  before  her  glass.  An  expression  of  dis 
content,  bred  of  late  hours  and  dissipation  was  con 
tradicted  by  her  young  eyes,  which  incessantly  smiled. 
She  couldn't  have  been  more  than  eighteen  and  her 
figure  was  nubile  in  its  firm  flesh  and  flowing  contours. 
Decidedly  a  treasure-trove  for  an  erotic  man.  Ulick 
went  to  her  and  she  met  him  half-way.  They  em 
braced  so  desperately  that  she  cried:  "You  are  such  a 
dear,  you  are  such  a  man!"  And  again  they  made  the 
eternal  gesture  which  mankind  shares  in  common  with 
his  simian  cousins  at  the  Zoo  or  of  the  jungle.  Youth 
must  have  its  fling  and  the  almighty  has  set  his  seal 
upon  the  multiplication  of  the  species.  And  youth 
is  better  so  employed  than  killing,  or  swindling,  or 
guzzling,  believed  Ulick.  Dora  and  Ulick  were  now 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  one  another  and  they  made 
room  in  their  consciousness  for  the  play  of  a  still 
more  powerful  instinct  than  reproduction.  They 
were  both  hungry  at  the  same  time.  Dora  declared 
her  headache  vanished;  Ulick,  glad  of  the  news,  never 
theless  wished  she  wouldn't  address  him  with  the 
inevitable  "dearie."  It  sounded  as  naked  as  a  cornet 
solo,  this  familiar  appellation  of  the  bordel.  How 
unoriginal  is  man,  how  little  he  changes  with  the 
ages.  In  every  tongue  since  the  Babel  scandal  there 


154  PAINTED  VEILS 

is  the  equivalent  of  "dearie";  only,  it  is  the  property, 
this  vocable,  of  the  women  of  whom  Dante  wrote: 
"As  the  rill  that  runs  from  Bulicame,  to  be  portioned 
out  among  the  sinful  women.  .  .  "  Ulick  felt 
relieved  when  breakfast  was  announced. 

Dora,  thanks  to  her  invincible  youth,  had  partly 
recovered.  Last  night  was  a  thousand  years  ago  for 
her;  only  the  present  existed.  Eternity  is  now.  She 
wore  a  morning-gown  as  pretty  as  herself.  And  she 
was  pretty;  in  his  eyes  she  kept  growing  prettier 
each  time  he  looked  at  her.  He  said  so.  She  rushed 
round  the  table  to  kiss  him.  A  tempestuous  tem 
perament.  The  breakfast-room  was  also  the  living- 
room.  It  was  in  a  tasteful  key,  the  furnishing  banal. 
The  view  gave  on  a  sea  of  roofs  and  spires.  The  park, 
with  its  sunburnt  foliage,  even  then  a  green  that  had 
decayed  for  want  of  proper  soil,  lay  across  the  west 
prospect.  Dora  informed  him  that  the  apartment 
was  in  the  tallest  building  on  upper  Lexington  Avenue. 
He  believed  her.  There  was  one  balcony,  and  of  stone. 
Together  they  stood  upon  it  smoking  their  first  cigar 
ette.  Both  were  in  an  expansive  mood.  Strong  tea, 
buttered  toast  and  marmalade  unloosed  their  tongues. 
Before  they  left  the  room  she  had  rung  and  another 
pretty  girl  entered.  She  was  a  quadroon,  lovely  of 
hair,  complexion,  and  with  a  profile  that  would  not 
have  been  out  of  place  on  an  antique  medal.  Ulick, 
who  Paris  born  and  bred,  had  no  "democratic"  preju 
dices  on  the  score  of  colour,  admiringly  stared  at  the 


PAINTED  VEILS  155 

girl  as  she  noiselessly  went  about  her  task.  Dora 
didn't  like  his  look.  "I  see,"  she  primly  remarked, 
"you  for  the  black-and  -tan !"  His  inquiring  expression, 
for  he  didn't  understand,  caused  her  to  jerk  her  head 
in  the  direction  of  the  maid.  "I  mean  the  slavey." 
"Oh!"  he  carelessly  confessed,  "I  had  a  little  chocolate- 
coloured  mistress  from  Mauritius  when  I  lived  in  Paris, 
and  she  wasn't  half  as  pretty  as  this  girl.  Since  Baude 
laire  set  the  fashion  young  French  poets  and  artists 
have  gone  in  for  dusky  concubines.  I  hear  that  at 
the  time  there  was  such  a  demand  that  the  Isle  de 
France  was  positively  emptied  of  those  young  women. 
You  know,  Dora,  Manet  painted  a  marvellous  negress 
in  his  Olympe,  the  slim,  nude  courtesan  with  the 
depraved  eyes  in  the  Luxembourg.  It  ought  to  be  in 
the  Louvre — perhaps  it  will  be  some  day — " 

Dora  pouted.  "I  don't  care  a  snap  for  your  old 
poets  and  their  nigger  brides.  Give  me  a  cigarette. 
Be  nice  to  me.  Can't  you  cuddle  me  a  little  bit?" 
Perfect,  said  he,  mentally.  The  type,  he  reasoned,  is 
confined  to  no  particular  race.  Customs  differ;  women, 
never.  He  became  impatient.  He  mentioned  an  after 
noon  engagement  at  5  o'clock.  It  must  be  all  that 
now,  and  he  kissed  Dora  good-bye.  She  was  nettled. 
"You  are  just  a  man,  after  all.  You  are  all  alike  as 
peas  in  a  pod.  I  expected  you  to  take  me  out  to  dinner, 
then  to  some  show.  What  a  dull  night  I've  before 
me."  He  was  sorry.  "I'll  be  back  by  seven,"  he  assured 
her,  and  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  mingled  joy  and 


156  PAINTED  VEILS 

triumph.  "You  are  a  dear,  Ulick.  I'll  be  ready  for  you. 
Change  your  clothes.  You  look  a  sight  in  those  togs." 
"Thanks — one  reason  why  I  must  get  down  town. 
Fresh  linen,  my  love."  "Where  do  you  live?"  He  gave 
the  Utopian  Club  address.  He  didn't  like  women 
to  track  him  home;  unless  it  were  Easter  or  Mona. 
What  were  those  two  girls  doing  now?  And  why  did 
he  dream  of  Mona  Milton,  Mona  of  all  girls,  instead 
of  Easter — or  Dora?  Dreams  are  silly,  meaningless, 
and  you  can't  rationalize  them.  He  started  to  go, 
when  Dora  significantly  said:  "Don't  forget  the  man 
telpiece."  For  the  second  time  that  afternoon  he  was 
puzzled.  "The  mantelpiece,"  he  echoed  and  searched 
for  one  with  his  eyes.  Dora  was  not  embarrassed. 
"The  rent,  angel-child,  must  be  punctually  paid  on  the 
first  of  the  month.  Our  landlord  is  a  terror.  This 
apartment  house  is  filled  with  well  kept  ladies.  No 
questions  are  asked.  The  elevator  runs  all  night.  We 
don't  bother  with  the  police.  So,  my  sweet  laddybuck 
plank  down  the  mazuma,  or  must  I  make  a  noise 
like  a  dollar-mark  for  this  stupid  young  chap  from 
Paris?"  He  understood.  He  opened  his  wallet  and 
gave  her  a  handful  of  notes;  thereat  she  ecstatically 
screamed  and  hugged  him.  He  escaped. 

XIV 

Ulick  was  fond  of  Dora.    No  mistake  as  to  the  order 
of  his  sentiment.     She  was  the  average  lust-cat  of 


PAINTED  VEILS  157 

commerce;  yet  she  was  "different."  Yes,  he  quoted 
Stendhal  to  her,  and  after  he  had  related  a  certain 
anecdote  of  Stendhal's  life  in  Milan,  she  put  fingers 
in  her  ears;  "Don't  tell  me  another  thing  about  the 
dirty  old  man,  or  I'll  hate  you."  "Dirty  old  man" 
was  a  critical  pronouncement  that  wouldn't  please  the 
Stendhalians.  Nevertheless  it  somehow  suits  Henry 
Beyle,  who,  genius  that  he  was,  must  have  been  pre 
cisely  what  Dora  called  him.  Well,  most  men  are  that; 
they  don't  have  to  be  old,  either.  What  is  life?  A 
dirty  business.  Birth  is  repulsive,  death  horrible. 
You  can't  escape  either,  though  you  can  cheat  the 
worms  by  cremation — that  foretaste  of  the  lower 
regions.  They  went  out  to  dinner.  Ulick  had  hoped 
to  see  again  the  dark  girl  with  the  soft  strange  eyes. 
How  often  he  had  tried  to  analyze  that  expression 
to  be  found  only  in  the  eyes  of  a  negress.  A  touch 
of  melancholy,  a  hint  of  fear,  a  sweet  submissiveness, 
and  the  naivet6  of  a  child — these,  with  the  heavy, 
slumberous  lids,  the  full  cup  of  the  eyeball  and  the 
unconcealed  languourous  passion,  pleased  the  aesthetic 
sense  of  the  young  man.  Alas!  she  was  not  in  sight. 
She  had  been  released  for  the  evening.  Dora  knew 
her  business.  The  young  man  was  entirely  too  sus 
ceptible;  besides,  she  didn't  like  a  "coon"  servant, 
as  she  called  her,  butting-in.  The  girl's  fate  was  as 
sured. 

They  dined  in  the  city,  then  visited  a  music-hall. 
He  was  mildly  amused  though  sleepy  and  he  made 


158  PAINTED  VEILS 

up  his  mind  not  to  spend  that  night  under  Dora's 
roof.  He  went  out  during  the  entr'acte  for  a  puff  of 
fresh  air  and  was  annoyed  on  his  return  to  find  Paul 
Godard  planted  in  the  box  beside  Dora  and  calmly 
twisting  the  rings  on  her  left  hand.  The  men  bowed; 
Ulick  distantly.  But  good-tempered,  irrepressible 
Paul  exclaimed:  "I  say,  Invern,  we  do  coincide  in 
our  tastes,  don't  we?"  Ulick  nodded,  not  in  the  gayest 
spirit.  Dora  divined  his  irritation  and  was  flattered. 
He  is  jealous  of  me,  she  thought,  and  plucked  at  his 
sleeve.  "Old  cross-patch,  sit  nearer.  Mr.  Godard 
won't  mind."  (The  hell  he  won't!  muttered  Ulick.) 
"You  won't  mind,  Paul,  will  you?  Ulick  is  such  a 
bear — no,  I  mean  a  dear.  Ulick,"  she  shook  his  listless 
arm,  "Ulick,  you  ought  to  have  heard  Paul  sing  your 
praises  just  before  you  came  back.  He  said  you  were 
the  only  critic  whose  criticisms  he  read.  Now,  be 
good — old  crank!"  The  atmosphere  became  frigid. 
Paul  felt  it,  and  he  was  not  exactly  thin-skinned.  He 
kissed  Dora's  hand,  whispered,  and  inclining  his 
head  in  Ulick's  direction,  went  away.  Silent,  Ulick 
accompanied  Dora  to  her  apartment  and  excused 
himself.  To  his  slight  surprise  she  accepted  his  excuse, 
and  pleaded  sleepiness  herself;  to  his  jealously  acute 
perception  there  was  an  absence  of  heartiness  in  their 
final  embrace,  but  perhaps  that  was  because  the 
chauffeur  was  watching  them.  She  named  a  day 
and  he  promised.  As  he  left  the  taxi  at  the  club  the 
man  confidentially  whispered:  "Some  girl,  that?" 


PAINTED  VEILS  159 

Ulick  wasn't  annoyed.  Why  should  he  be?  Dora 
belonged  to  the  public.  She  came  from  the  people. 
Her  daintiness  was  superficial.  A  pretty  vulgarian, 
her  appeal  was  universal  to  males  in  rut.  The  wealthy 
Paul  and  the  humble  mechanician  both  longed  for 
her.  So  had  Ulick,  and  he  would  again.  She  was 
aware  of  her  attractions  and  like  the  busy  little  mer 
chant  she  was  she  sold  her  wares  to  the  highest  bidder. 
But  a  demure  harlot  in  demeanor  occasionally  re 
fined.  Silver  plate  that  showed  prosaic  brass  when 
she  was  angry  or  off  guard;  then  her  language  darkened 
the  air;  profanity,  abuse,  obscenity.  The  filthiest 
words  in  the  mud-lard  vocabulary  hurtled  by  the  heads 
of  her  antagonist,  whether  a  sister-cocotte,  a  chauffeur, 
or  a  clubman.  Ulick  was  yet  to  pass  through  that 
verbal  ordeal;  but  it  would  surely  come  to  him  as  it 
did  to  the  rest.  She  drank  too  much,  and  that  was  her 
vice.  Her  profession  was  in  her  estimation  as  honour 
able  as  any  other.  What's  the  difference  between 
me  and  the  poor  dirty  wife  with  a  dozen  brats?  A 
woman  is  always  kept  by  a  man,  wedding-ring  or  no. 
Don't  I  love  babies?  I  dote  on  them.  Thus  her  phil 
osophy  and  her  preference.  She  adored  children. 
She  loved  all  the  nice  young  chaps  who  made  her 
presents  and  helped  to  pay  her  steadily  mounting 
household  expenses.  If  she  could  only  put  aside  a 
few  dollars  every  week  for  the  rainy  day  sure  to  come. 
But  she  never  could.  The  weekly  bills  were  so  numer 
ous  and  so  tame,  that  they  ate  out  of  her  hands,  she 


160  PAINTED  VEILS 

would  joke.  And  Paul  Godard  would  surely  sleep 
under  her  roof  this  very  night,  said  Ulick,  as  he  wearily 
undressed  himself.  I  shan't  worry  much.  Dora  is 
a  commodity.  So  is  Paul.  So  am  I — for  Dora.  So 
is  Mona.  We  are  all  chattels  of  chance. 


XV 

For  more  than  a  week  Ulick  hadn't  seen  Mona.  He 
hadn't  much  missed  her  in  the  swelter  of  the  new  pas 
sion,  but  after  ten  days  passed  he  began  to  worry. 
What  if  she  were  sick?  Or  angry?  And  that  was  an 
unpleasant  contingency.  The  worst  of  it  was  that 
he  had  no  way  of  knowing  the  truth.  Milt  was  at 
the  seminary  and  seldom  wrote.  Ulick  didn't  know 
Mona's  parents,  not  even  by  sight.  Should  he  risk 
a  call?  No,  anything  but  calling.  She  would  be  angry 
with  him  for  breaking  her  most  rigid  rule.  For  some 
unearthly  reason  she  had  made  him  promise  not  to 
visit  her,  not  to  seek  to  know  her  father  and  mother; 
above  all,  not  to  divulge  the  fact  of  their  friendship 
to  her  brother.  That  would  be  the  one  unforgivable 
sin.  Ulick  had  promised,  though  reluctantly.  Why 
this  mystery!  He  was  not  married.  He  was  not  a 
criminal;  far  from  it,  he  was  considered  a  very  good 
catch,  not  only  because  of  his  family  connections  and 
youth,  but  his  income  was  a  bait  for  ambitious  mothers 
with  unmarried  daughters.  He  knew  all  this,  so  he 
was  surprised  at  the  little  shifts  and  tactics  of  Mona. 


PAINTED  VEILS  161 

She  is  romantic.  She  is  oversexed — he  summoned  to 
his  memory  her  deep-set,  passionate  eyes;  and  she 
likes  to  make  herself  not  too  easy,  he  decided;  but 
what  in  the  devil  has  become  of  her? 

He  went  to  their  old  trysting  place  in  the  park.  He 
went — with  Dora — to  the  Casino  and  pumped  M. 
Dorval.  No,  that  amiable  man  hadn't  seen  either 
Mile.  Milton  or  her  student-brother.  Suppose  she 
came  in  now  and  found  me  sitting  here  with  Dora. 
I  shouldn't  be  frightened.  She  is  too  sensible  not  to 
know  the  nature  of  the  animal  man.  But  Milt  might 
cut  me  and  put  an  end  to  our  friendship.  I'll  wager 
Mona  would  continue  to  meet  me.  He  saw  Alfred 
Stone  one  afternoon  and  heard  from  this  indefatigable 
gossip  and  news-gatherer  that  Mrs.  Milton  and  Mona 
had  gone  to  Hot  Springs  for  a  month.  He  had  been 
to  see  them  (he  calls,  I  can't,  ruminated  Ulick)  and 
found  Mrs.  Milton  not  at  all  well.  Nor  was  Mona  in 
the  best  of  health.  She  was  snappy  and  said  she  needed 
a  change.  A  change  was  good  for  every  one,  and, 
continued  Alfred,  she  gave  me  such  a  disagreeable 
look  that  I  beat  a  retreat.  Say,  Ulick,  what  are  you 
up  to  with  that  young  woman?  She's  not  the  Dora 
kind,  you  know,  not  even  the  Easter  kind,  and  she  is 
Milt's  sister.  Ulick  was  aghast.  This  busybody 
telling  him  of  his  moral  remissness,  of  his  intimacy 
with  Mona.  How  did  he  find  that  out?  And  Dora. 
And  Easter.  It  was  too  much  for  his  irritable  nerves. 

"Mind  your  own  business,  Al,  and  I'll  attend  to 


162  PAINTED  VEILS 

mine."  He  turned  and  walked  in  another  direction. 
He  fumed  with  anger.  Dora,  too!  But  Stone  was  a 
visitor  to  every  theatre  and  concert-hall  in  town. 
Alfred  must  have  seen  Dora  with  him.  What  did  it 
matter,  anyhow?  Dora  is  all  right.  A  hired  woman, 
nothing  more.  But  it  was  infernal  impudence  on  Al 
fred's  part  to  drag  in  Mona's  name,  and  so  suddenly. 
What  could  he  know  in  reality?  Very  little.  But  he 
knew.  That  was  the  worst  of  it;  and  there  was  the 
implication  of  a  threat  in  the  use  of  Milt's  name.  A 
warning?  That  sink  of  all  the  iniquities,  Alfred  Stone, 
to  preach  to  him.  He  deserved  a  kicking.  He  was 
too  contemptible  to  punch.  TJlick  felt  his  biceps 
harden.  And  for  heaven's  sake  why  did  he  bring  in 
the  name  of  Easter?  He  was  certain  that  Alfred  had 
been  jealous  from  the  start  about  the  way  Easter 
deserted  him  for  Ulick.  His  amour-propre  was  scratch 
ed.  He  had  known  her  first.  He  had  taken  her  to  the 
Conservatoire,  to  Madame  Ash,  and  if  he  missed 
introducing  her  to  Lilli  Lehmann,  had  he  not  urged 
upon  that  great  artiste  the  advisability  of  developing 
the  young  singer?  And  there  were  the  chances  to  make 
the  connection  a  profitable  one  for  Alfred.  He  never 
forgets  self,  bitterly  said  Ulick.  He  is  a  rotten  little 
egotist  and  I  wouldn't  put  him  above  chantage,  polite 
chantage,  if  you  will,  but  plain  extortion  at  the  end. 
Parasite,  pimp,  gambler.  He  recited  a  litany  of 
abusive  names.  If  Alfred  had  a  hint  of  that  New 
Hampshire  affair,  God  help  Easter!  He  would  dog 


PAINTED  VEILS  163 

her  like  a  detective.  The  hound.  In  that  case  the 
only  resort  for  me  would  be  to  give  him  a  horsewhipping. 
Would  that  keep  his  vile  tongue  in  his  mouth?  I  doubt 
it.  But  I'll  take  his  advice.  I'll  go  slow.  Why  hasn't 
Mona  written  me? 

XVI 

That  idea  haunted  him.  Why,  at  least,  hadn't  she 
dropped  him  a  line  saying  she  was  going  away?  Had 
the  miserable  spy,  Alfred,  given  her  a  hint  of  Dora? 
He  had  spoken  of  the  "orgy" — that's  what  the  news 
papers  called  it — at  the  studio.  It  made  the  fortune 
of  the  pie-girl,  and  the  list  of  guest's  names  had  been 
scrupulously  printed,  Ulick  Invern's  among  the  rest. 
It  gave  him  vogue  at  the  clubs,  did  that  wretched 
bacchanale,  and  at  the  opera  or  theatre  he  saw  women 
curiously  regard  him.  Pulpits  had  expounded  upon 
the  Scarlet  Woman  sitting,  on  the  Seven  Hills  of  Baby 
lon;  meaning  both  Rome  and  New  York.  Why, 
then,  shouldn't  Mona  have  heard,  perhaps  read,  of 
his  complicity  in  the  horrid  debauch?  Not  that  it  was 
so  horrid  to  him.  More  stupid,  in  fact,  than  horrid. 
Nevertheless,  she  might  have  written  him  a  sweet 
scolding  letter.  No,  it  wasn't  Ned  Haldane's  abridged 
version  of  a  Thousand  and  One  Nights  that  had 
angered  her;  it  was  Dora;  Dora  and  nothing  else. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  over  this  solution  and  went 
at  once  to  see  that  bewitching  young  person.  There, 
the  nymph  making  her  orisons,  sitting  on  his  lap,  he 


164  PAINTED  VEILS 

became  moody,  absent-minded,  and  surly,  so  much  so 
that  the  girl  exclaimed:  "Ulick  Invern,  what's  the 
woman's  name?"  He  didn't  answer.  He  was  glad 
she  hadn't  called  him  Jewel.  Only  Mona  called  him 
Jewel.  Mona  and  Easter.  He  softly  swore  that  Dora 
must  never  use  his  pet  name,  and  in  that  resolution 
the  character  of  Ulick  flew  like  a  flag.  His  was  indeed 
a  multiple  personality. 

XVII 

The  Arena  was  cosy  and  inviting  when,  on  a  night 
during  Easter  week,  Ulick  entered  and  traversed  the 
length  of  the  room.  All  the  tables  were  occupied.  Mr. 
Muschenheim  met  him  and  for  a  few  minutes  they  gos 
siped  in  German,  which  language  Ulick  spoke  as  well  as 
he  did  French  and  English  because  of  his  sojourn  at 
Jena.  "Your  friends  are  sitting  in  the  next  room,  in 
the  corner,"  said  his  host.  Ulick  cast  inquiring  eyes. 
To  his  surprise  he  saw  Milt  and  with  him,  Alfred.  Con 
sidering  how  heartily  he  had  cursed  him  after  their  last 
encounter  Ulick's  power  of  social  adaptation  must 
have  been  in  excellent  working  order.  He  went  over 
to  the  pair  and  was  welcomed  by  Milt  with  unfeigned 
cordiality.  Alfred  gave  him  two  chilly  fingers.  "You 
here"?  Ulick  asked.  "Yes,"  replied  Milt.  "I  am  home 
for  a  week,  the  Easter  holidays,  you  know,"  "And  he 
isn't  ashamed  to  sit  in  a  cafe  with  his  collar  buttoned 
behind,"  Stoned  jeered.  "Now,  Alfred,  what  nonsense. 
On  the  continent  even  the  clergy  go  to  public  places, 


PAINTED  VEILS  165 

such  as  concerts,  opera,  and  restaurants.  We  must 
eat  and  drink  like  other  men.  Look  at  Mgr.  Ducey. 
He  is  a  man  of  the  world,  yet  an  irreproachable  eccle 
siastic,"  Alfred  sniffed.  Ulick  didn't  dare  to  ask  news 
of  Mona.  His  heart  was  heavy  with  anticipation.  The 
sight  of  her  brother  revived  his  love.  What  a  charming 
girl  she  was.  What  intelligence.  How  unlike  other 
women?  With  her  the  expected  never  happened.  He 
was  annoyed  at  his  false  position,  and  not  reassured 
when  his  eyes  met  the  searching  glance  of  Milt. 

"Well,  Ulick,  how  goes  the  culture  of  that  famous 
ego  of  yours?"  The  tone  was  friendly,  but  for  some 
reason,  inexplicable  to  himself,  Ulick  felt  annoyed. 
"My  ego  is  all  right,  Milt.  Anyhow,  it  is  freer  than 
yours.  Convictions  are  prisons,  you  know?"  "Ah, 
Nietzsche.  I  see  you  have  absorbed  his  poison,  too. 
My  dear  boy,  those  false  prophets  and  corrupters  of 
youth  always  preach  freedom.  Freedom  for  what? 
While  I  am  not  a  determinist,  yet  I  admit  we  can't  be 
free  from  ourselves.  Our  personality  is  an  ensemble 
of  our  ancestral  characteristics.  Our  instincts  are 
dangerous  guides.  Just  now  there  is  a  tendency  to 
place  instinct  over  intellect.  Reason  unaided  by  God 
is  a  treacherous  guide,  but  instinct  alone!  Heavens. 
In  twenty  years  cosmos  would  be  chaos."  Milt  wiped 
his  forehead. 

"Phew!"  cried  Alfred,  "what  a  sermon  you  will 
preach  some  day,  Milt.  You  will  be  a  regular  turkey- 
cock  of  God.  Instinct  or  not,  our  country  is  galloping 


166  PAINTED  VEILS 

hellward.  Watch.  When  it  was  half  aristocratic  there 
was  some  outward  semblance  of  respect  for  the  govern 
ment,  but  today  the  individual,  and  his  rights,  are  both 
growing  less  and  less.  Mob  rules.  The  melting-pot! 
What  not!  We  shall  never  melt  the  muckers  who  are 
overrunning  us.  I  happen  to  have  a  good  friend,  an 
abbe  from  Luxembourg,  little,  plump,  blond;  the 
typical  French  abbe  of  the  18th  century.  He  has  a 
theory.  He  says:  "The  firfet  swarm  of  locusts  ate  up 
the  Indians;  then  came  the  Irish;  and  the  English  and 
Dutch  disappeared.  Followed  the  Germans,  and  now 
the  Italians  and  Slavs.  They  have  eaten  up  the  native 
American.  The  Jews  are  the  last  and  deadliest  locusts 
of  all;  when  they  finish  with  America  not  a  green  leaf, 
a  blade  of  grass,  an  ear  of  wheat,  will  be  left  in  the  land." 
The  others  were  amused  at  his  earnestness.  Surely 
Alfred  was  of  Jewish  descent!  Ulick  interposed: 
"But  Alfred  you  are  a  Jew.  Why  do  you  class  them 
among  the  destructive  elements?  As  for  the  Italians — 
well,  I  wish  that  America  had  been  completely  colon 
ized  by  them.  What  a  different  atmosphere  would  be 
ours.  The  fine-arts,  and  the  art  of  living,  would  be  our 
heritage  instead  of  our  craze  for  commercialism,  not 
to  mention  the  growing  menace  of  puritanism."  "Don't 
abuse  the  Puritans,"  interrupted  Milt.  "They  are  a 
misrepresented  people.  It  is  their  fanatical  offspring 
who  will  lay  waste  America.  A  moribund  branch  of 
Christianity  will  attempt  to  shackle  freedom  and  force 
its  prejudices  on  a  free  people  .  .  . 


PAINTED  VEILS  167 

"Free  fiddlesticks" !  Alfred  was  in  a  rage.  "Melting- 
pot  be  hanged.  There  will  be  anarchy  in  this  land  if 
these  rattlesnakes  are  not  scotched — you  can't  kill 
them.  A  republic  is  doomed  to  tyranny;  the  worst  sort 
of  tyranny — public  opinion.  I  grant  you,  Milt,  that 
the  modern  breed  of  those  Mayflower  pests  are  more 
tyrannical  than  the  original  lot  of  religious  degenerates 
— what  else  were  they,  crazy  as  lunatics  with  their 
private  interpretations  of  biblical  texts;  the  book  of 
the  Apocalypse  is  responsible  for  more  madmen  than 
any  other  so-called  sacred  script  in  existence — yet  the 
neo-puritan  means  to  put  us  all  in  a  little  hell  of  his  own. 
He  calls  it  heaven,  but  it  will  be  hell.  The  country  is 
overrun  by  astrologists,  fortune-tellers,  unchristian 
scientists,  holy  howlers.  We  are  not  far  from  being  a 
nation  of  mad  folk.  One  neurosis  follows  another.  I 
tell  you — anarchy  looms  ahead.  And  woman-suffrage — 
the  worst  of  all  our  tyrants;  woman,  the  eternal 
ninny.  She  is  to  rule,  as  if  she  doesn't  play  her  sex  now 
for  all  it's  worth.  Pardon  me,  Milt — she  is  right  as  a 
cook  or  a  concubine,  but  as  a  ruler !  Excuse  me.  And 
prohibition.  It's  coming,  and  in  its  train,  drugs  and 
other  tyrannies.  Men  will  smoke  bad  tobacco  in  fear 
and  trembling.  The  melting-pot — I  see  the  locusts 
swarming  for  their  last  attack  on  the  good  things  of 
America.  Poor  old  America!  She  succumbed  because 
she  was  too  sentimental,  and  sentimentality  breeds 
altruism,  and  altruism  breeds  busybodies,  and 


168  PAINTED  VEILS 

busybodies  breed  war.    War  breeds   more  war,    and 
then  the  final  catastrophe  .     .     .    " 

"Stop  it!"  commanded  Milt,  "stop  that  choral  of 
pessimism.  So  bad  things  are  not."  "Didn't  Nietzsche 
assert  that  Christianity  and  alcohol  have  been  the  two 
great  means  of  corruption  and  still  are  the  worst 
foes  of  civilization?"  asked  Ulick.  "Why  drag  in 
alcohol?"  "If  he  did,  he  was  quite  right,"  commented 
Alfred,  as  he  emptied  his  stein  and  rapped  for  another. 
"Symptoms  of  mysticism  are  usually  accompanied  by 
sexual  impotence."  Milt  was  distressed.  The  turn 
of  the  talk  didn't  please  him,  besides,  it  was  Ulick, 
not  Alfred,  in  whom  he  was  interested.  The  other,  that 
little  Jew  atheist  with  his  filthy  vices — all  the  turpi 
tudes,  he  felt  assured — was  a  rotten  branch  lopped 
from  his  own  religion  and  race.  Christianity  wanted 
none  of  such  men;  dessicated  souls.  Vases  of  iniquity. 
Vile,  accursed,  doomed  to  Gehenna.  Nevertheless, 
with  his  paternal  solicitude  for  the  straying  sinner,  Milt 
placed  his  hand  over  Alfred's  and  smiled  benignly. 
"Alfred,"  he  adjured,  "Alfred  repent  while  there's  time. 
Here  is  Ulick  fuddling  his  wits  with  writings  that  are 
of  no  pith  or  moment.  Their  rhetoric  it  is  that  seduces 
him.  The  petticoats,  too, — Hello!  who's  this?  I  vow 
if  here  isn't  Paul  Godard."  Ulick  groaned.  Always 
Paul.  He  couldn't  escape  him.  Nor  did  Alfred  look 
overjoyed.  Paul,  accompanied  by  an  insignificant 
chap,  bustled  to  the  table.  "Oh!  I  say,  isn't  this  a 
jolly  go.  You  fellows  look  as  if  you  had  the  affairs  of 


PAINTED  VEILS  169 

state  burdening  your  souls.  You  have?  Well,  it's 
time  I  intervened  and  brought  a  new  atmosphere  to 
cheer  you  up.  How  do,  bishop?  No,  not  yet?  But 
soon  will  be,  I  hope,  Milt.  Some  day,  some  day!  as 
Tosti  sings.  How  d'ye  do,  Ulick?  When  did  you  see 
Dodo  last?  Fascinating  creature.  I  drink  her  health. 
And  how  are  you,  Stone?  Your  bones  as  sour  as  ever. 
Ah!  yes,  I  forgot!  This  is  my  friend  Bell.  But,  of 
course,  you  know  him.  He  is  working  the  same  side  of 
the  street  as  you  fellows — excepting  the  Rev.  Milt. 
What  is  it  you  say,  Invern?  Once  a  newspaper  man 
always  a  wh'ore?  Isn't  that  it?  A  jolly  epigram,  that 
.  .  .  "  He  rattled  on  "What  I  really  said  was  this," 
tartly  answered  Ulick:  "Once  a  millionaire  always  an 
imbecile."  Paul  laughed  the  loudest.  "The  tables 
turned,  that  deal,  and  speaking  of  table-turning,  let's 
get  the  head-waiter  to  fetch  a  larger  table.  I  need  elbow 
room  for  I  feel  that  I'm  going  to  make  a  night  of  it. 
"What  night  isn't  all  night  with  you"?  demanded  Ulick. 
Paul  sweetly  grinned.  "The  night  you  are  there,"  and 
jerked  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  Lexington  Avenue. 
Invern  scowled,  but  kept  his  temper. 

They  now  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  room  around  a 
bigger  table.  Bell,  who  had  been  blinking  at  the  com 
pany,  blurted  out:  "Paul,  I  saw  a  divorced  wife  of  mine 
today."  "Which  one"?  asked  Paul,  winking  at  Stone. 
"I  think  it  was  the  one  who  plays  the  violoncello — or 
should  I  say,  'cello,  Stone?  Thank  you.  Yes,  it  was 
Ida.  She  set  me  crazy  with  her  practising.  That  bull- 


170  PAINTED  VEILS 

fiddle  always  between  her  knees — she  complained  of 
corns  on  her  knees — always  rumbling  or  buzzing  like 
a  big  bumble-bee  with  a  basso-profundo  stinger.  No, 
I  simply  couldn't  stand  it.  I  gave  her  grounds  for 

divorce,    miles    and    miles  of    grounds" "Don't 

boast,    Bell,"   admonished    Paul "I    don't    boast 

Godard.  Whatever  fruit  fails  we  men  all  know  that  the 
co-respondent  crop  never  fails.  I  might  add,  never 
frosts."  And  then  he  went  off  into  an  hysterical  burst 
of  laughter.  No  one  smiled.  Undaunted,  Bell  dried  his 
eyes  and  resumed:  "Ida  is  O.  K.  She  married  a  house- 
painter.  I  don't  think  any  the  less  of  her  for  that. 
House-painters  make  more  money  than  journalists — I 
beg  pardon,  Stone — I  mean,  newspaper  men.  That 
constipated  gargoyle,  Snapgood,  he  hates  the  word. 
He  calls  himself  a  journalist.  I'm  a  newspaper  man,  I 
am  .  .  .  "And  as  ignorant  as  one,  too,"  sarcasti 
cally  added  Alfred.  A  chorus  of  dissent  followed. 
Because  Bell  was  a  born  ass,  the  tribe  he  belonged  to 
was  not,  necessarily  the  same.  "You  should  go  to 
London,  Alfred.  There  it  takes  four  newspaper  men 
combined  to  understand  a  Yankee  joke."  It  was  Milt 
who  spoke.  "I  don't  wonder,"  retorted  Alfred. 

Bell  was  a  much-married,  much-harried,  much- 
divorced  man.  Some  wags  said  that  he  was  more 
divorced  than  married,  more  sinning  than  sinned 
against.  He  admitted  that  he  had  to  pay  common-law 
alimony,  as  he  called  it,  to  his  common-law  wives. 
They  were  legion.  This  small,  stupid-looking  chap  had 


PAINTED  VEILS  171 

a  passion  for  getting  into  scrapes  with  girls.  He  had 
been  divorced  four  times  in  four  different  states  by 
duped  women,  whose  indignation  was  boundless  when 
they  failed  to  get  alimony;  rather,  failed  to  collect. 
Their  man  was  quicksilver.  He  always  escaped. 
Twice,  death  had  obligingly  stepped  in  and  divorced 
him.  In  these  cases  he  even  escaped  paying  posthum 
ous  alimony;  he  wouldn't  foot  the  undertaker's  bill. 
His  motto  was :  "Let  the  dead  bury  the  dead."  And  so 
it  came  to  pass,  he  had  married  in  succession  his  land 
lady's  daughter,  a  greasy  frump,  a  widow  with  an 
annuity,  a  pianiste,  a  'cellist.  Bell  was  also  musical. 
He  had  successively  lived  with  a  fat  chorus  girl,  a  pro 
fessional  prostitute — he  kept  this  particular  episode  to 
himself — a  circus-rider,  a  servant  girl,  an  octoroon, 
and  with  two  sisters,  who  worked  in  an  artificial  flower- 
shop.  He  was  versatile,  Bell.  As  he  was  glib  of  pen 
and  tongue  he  earned  plenty  of  money  and  the  women 
flocked  about  him.  He  had  a  certain  goatish  reputa 
tion.  Girls  giggled  when  he  passed,  his  eyes  lecher- 
ously  ogling.  Little  riders!  they  whispered,  and  gig 
gled  again.  Ulick  despised  him,  but  his  own  morals 
were  hardly  a  whit  better;  only  his  tastes  were  more 
discriminating;  thus  he  consoled  himself. 

XVIII 

Without  a  transposition  the  conversation  glided  to 
the  theme  of  women.    Bell,  who  was  beginning  to  feel 


172  PAINTED  VEILS 

his  liqueur,  intoned  a  toast  which  he  swore  he  had  heard 
at  a  dentists'  banquet,  but  a  nudge  under  the  table 
from  Alfred  kept  him  from  further  rambling.  Milt 
wasn't  annoyed.  He  calmly  sipped  his  beer,  his  hear 
ing  keen  for  fluctuations  in  the  moral  market.  He  had 
said  that  a  priest  must  know  the  human  soul  inside  and 
out.  To  be  in  the  world,  yet  not  of  it,  to  wade  through 
the  sins  and  heresies  of  this  ignominious  age,  yet  never 
wallow  in  them.  To  stand  in  front  of  the  monkey-cage 
we  call  life,  watch  the  antics  of  the  inmates  but  never 
imperil  his  soul  by  approving  of  the  sarabande  of  sex 
surrounding  him.  That  was  the  ideal  of  Milt.  He  had 
the  makings  in  him  of  a  lover,  a  thinker,  a  rebel.  But 
never  did  he  lapse  into  that  stupration  of  the  soul,  that 
orgasm  of  the  intellect,  we  call  desire  and  pride;  that 
mass  of  confused  emotion  evoked  by  the  curves  of  the 
female  form  he  never  indulged  in.  The  brief,  dizzy 
syncope  which  ensues  during  the  frantic  bundling  of  the 
two  sexes  he  had  never  experienced,  though  he  yearned 
for  it,  during  moments  of  weakness.  But  he  was  a 
level-headed  young  man.  He  knew  the  strait  way,  and 
also  the  path  of  flaming  ecstacy .  He  meant  to  work  long 
and  faithfully  in  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord,  and  to  ac 
complish  his  self-imposed  mission  he  prepared  by  study 
ing  life  from  all  angles,  dubious  or  beautiful.  His  heart 
was  a  reservoir  overflowing  with  love  for  his  fellow-men. 
He  cherished  profound  affection  for  his  sister,  also  pro 
found  distrust.  Her  many  excellent,  even  superlative, 
qualities  were  offset  by  a  perverse  twist,  not  congenital. 


PAINTED  VEILS  173 

It  might  prove  her  undoing.  He  fervently  prayed  for 
her  conversion,  and  by  some  odd  association  of  ideas 
he  prayed  for  the  salvation  of  Ulick  Invern's  soul; 
that  he,  with  his  splendid  heritage  of  faith,  family, 
fortune,  talent,  be  given  the  boon  of  light.  Ulick  and 
Mona  made  a  pleasant  picture  in  the  mind  of  this  can 
didate  for  the  order  of  Melchizedek. 

"Say,  Milt,"  speculated  Stone  in  his  most  aggres 
sively  malicious  manner,  "whenever  I  look  at  a  fresh- 
colored  young  priest  like  you,  I  don't  wonder  that  the 
girls  swarm  about  you  like  flies  in  a  molasses  cask. 
Your  purity  is  written  in  your  eyes.  It  oozes  from  your 
expression.  It's  an  aura.  The  female  ever  in  pursuit 
of  masculine  honey  feels  this,  and  you  are  her  idol,  as 
is,  in  a  different  fashion,  a  tenor."  Milt  protested. 
Paul  suddenly  lost  his  head,  crying:  "Woman  is  the 
split-infinitive  in  the  grammar  of  life,"  which  was 
capped  by  Bell:  "Woman  is  an  ecstasy-breeding 
machine."  "I  hate  speeches  beginning  with — Woman 
is  this,  woman  is  that,"  proclaimed  Ulick.  "When  men 
foregather  and  booze  they  suddenly  land  in  that  bohe- 
mia  of  dead-sea  fruit,  the  woman  question.  Women 
are  human  like  men,  and  the  little  difference" — 
"Bless  de  Lawd  fer  de  difference,  as  the  darky  preacher 
said — "  It  was  the  thick  voice  of  Bell — ''is  the  cause 
for  the  lot  of  rotten  talk  and  theorizing."  "Bravo, 
Ulick" !  said  Milt,  with  sentimental  vehemence.  "Faire 
remonter  tout  son  sexe  dans  son  cerveau,"  he  added. 
But  Stone  was  curious.  "I'd  like  to  know  the  trick  of 


174  PAINTED  VEILS 

that  sex-transposition.  Women  are  a  nuisance — 
sometimes;  often  I  should  like  to  do  without  them; 
but  I  acknowledge  I  can't.  What's  the  method,  Milt, 
camphor  or  prayer"?  Milt,  scandalized,  didn't  reply. 
To  break  the  embarrassing  silence  Ulick  turned  to 
Paul  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  anything  new. 

"Oh,  yes,  Marie,  the  singing  comedienne,  had  just 
had  a  row  with  her  last  husband.  You  know  that  fas 
tidious  baronet  of  hers  who  wears  a  bangle  on  his 
ankle.  The  other  night  at  Lady  Murchison's  dinner  I 
sat  next  to  her.  I  wished  to  be  friendly  so  I  asked  how 
she  was  getting  along  with  her  young  man.  "Oh  nicely," 
she  said,  with  that  dazzling  Celtic  smile,  "we  never 
quarrel  unless  we  fall  in  love  with  the  same  man." 
A  roar  followed.  Milt  groaned. 

"Only  the  women  a  man  doesn't  win  are  desirable." 
"Listen  to  the  Rochefoucauld!  Bell,  where  do  you  get 
your  novel  ideas"?  "Such  ideas  should  be  caged  like 
monkeys" — this  from  Milt.  Then  he  arose,  disgusted. 
"You  chaps  are  rubbing  it  in.  One  would  suppose 
that  sex  ruled  this  planet,  instead  of  being  perhaps, 
only  a  necessary  incident,  or  by-product.  I'll 
move  homewards.  Will  you  be  seen  tomorrow 
afternoon,  Ulick"?  He  knows  something,  thought 
Ulick,  but  he  cordially  invited  Milt  assuring  him  that 
he  would  be  found  any  time  after  the  midday  breakfast. 
Couldn't  Milt  take  that  meal  with  him?  Milt  con 
sented.  "Then  sit  down  a  moment,  Milt,  I  should  like 
to  tell  you  of  a  theory  advanced  by  Remy  de  Gour- 


PAINTED  VEILS  175 

mont  concerning  sex.  You  spoke  of  a  "necessary  inci 
dent."  Milt  sat  down.  "It's  this,"  resumed  Ulick. 
"De  Gourmont  insisted  that  the  real  protagonist  of 
humanity,  indeed,  of  all  organic  life,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
procreative  process,  which  act  epitomizes  all  creation. 
This  theory  may  not  be  found  in  his  remarkable 
Physique  de  1'Amour,  it  was  something  he  thought 
out  later.  Briefly,  we  are  not  the  rulers  of  our  personal 
destiny,  but  only  an  envelope  of  flesh  and  blood  to 
protect  the  chief  factor  of  our  being,  our  sex-organs. 
As  long  as  they  are  vital  our  organism  flourishes; 
when  they  weaken,  men  and  women  weaken  with  them, 
wither  and  die.  It  has  a  sinister  ring,  hasn't  it,  this 
idea  of  a  hidden  force  directing  our  energies,  our  very 
fate.  It  is  supported  by  the  seers  who  through  the  ages 
have  recognized  a  blind,  remorseless  power  in  whose 
grip  our  individual  happiness  is  as  helpless  as  a  straw 
in  a  hurricane.  Only  the  species  counts.  Love  is 
always  tragic,  even  the  amours  of  a  ragpicker  and  a 
gutter-wench.  Fatality  is  stamped  on  the  forehead 
of  every  human.  Little  wonder  primitive  nations  in 
the  dusky  depths  of  Asiatic  mystic  groves  have  pro 
strated  themselves  before  the  carved  images  of  the 
lingam  and  yoni,  the  male  and  female  principles. 
Sex  is  in  the  background  of  every  modern  religion, 
from  the  phallic  symbol  of  the  churchspire  to  the  wor 
shipping  of  the  matrix."  "I'm  off,"  cried  Milt,  as  he 
jumped  up.  "I  can't  stay  here  any  longer  in  such 
a  fetid  atmosphere  to  have  religion  bespattered. 


176  PAINTED  VEILS 

Good-night,  boys.  Ulick — I'll  be  with  you  at  the 
Maison  Felice  at  one  o'clock,  or  thereabouts."  He 
disappeared. 

"I  say,  Ulick,"  remarked  Paul,  "you  do  draw  the 
longbow,  don't  you,  about  sex- worship?  Did  you 
yarn  for  Milt's  benefit  or  is  it  all  gospel  truth?"  "It  is 
in  the  gospels  that  you  will  find  it,"  answered  Ulick, 
who  was  distrait  and  feeling  anxious  over  that  projected 
visit.  What  did  it  presage!  Stone  nudged  Bell  who 
was  in  his  cups  and  snoring. 

"Give  us  a  rest  with  your  sex-symbolism.  I  heard  a 
good  story  this  afternoon — wake  up  Bell,  this  will  fit 
your  case  someday — from  Dr.  Williams.  He's  my 
doctor.  The  best  ever.  Hasn't  sent  me  a  bill  for  years 
because  the  last  one  we  shook  dice  for  and  I  won.  He 
has  a  patient,  an  old  chap  of  sixty  who  came  to  him 
one  day  and  begged,  on  his  knees,  the  Doc  said,  for 
once  more,  only  once!  His  doctor  bluntly  told  him  a 
man  isn't  like  a  woman — toujours  prete — but  given  by 
nature  a  certain  number  of  cartridges  which  he  is  to 
use  as  suits  his  temperament.  If  he  fires  them  off  in 
his  youth,  in  middle-age  he  will  be  empty-handed  and 
must  avoid  targets  and  rifle-ranges.  The  wise  space 
their  shooting  and  we  sometimes,  not  often,  witness  the 
spectacle  of  an  old  man,  hale  and  hearty,  buying  a 
buxom  young  target  and  actually  scoring  bullseyes. 
This,  however,  is  an  exceptional  occurrence.  The  off 
spring  of  aged  men  are  not  taken  seriously,  as  is  evi 
denced  by  the  brutal  query :  'Who  is  the  other  fellow?' 


PAINTED  VEILS  177 

Horns  seldom  decorate  the  brows  of  youthful  males.  To 
make  a  short  story  long  the  doctor  gave  the  poor  old 
top  a  doze  of  some  devilish  compound,  a  Brown- 
Sequard  cocktail  containing  picric  acid  with  mountain 
oysters,  or  lamb-fries  as  a  chaser.  He  was  curious 
enough  to  ask  his  patient  where  he  would  fire  off  his 
last  cartridge.  The  chap  became  voluble.  He  had  an 
old  wife  whom  he  loved  very  much,  but  he  kept  all 
physical  manifestations  for  his  mistress,  a  younger 
woman,  who  supported  her  husband  and  a  large  family 
in  the  sweat  of  her  deceit.  A  conscientious  hard-work 
ing  woman,  who  never  deceived  her  lover,  except  with 
the  aid  of  her  legitimate  husband — an  arrangement 
understood,  I  believe.  But  the  funny  thing  was  that 
the  old  fellow  became  jealous  of  this  same  husband. 
He  had  boasted  so  much  of  the  naked  conflicts  he  had 
waged  when  young  that  he  greatly  desired  to  give  the 
lady  of  his  affections  a  touch  of  his  early  quality.  With 
the  potent  fluid  of  the  doctor's  drug  sizzling  in  him  he 
literally,  so  the  Doc  averred  to  me,  scampered  off 
helter-skelter  to  his  beloved.  Not  his  wife,  mind  you. 
Oh,  no !  That  would  be  wasting  powder  and  shot  on  a 
fortress  already  captured.  He  had  telephoned  the 
faithful  concubine,  who  awaited  him,  her  curiosity 
aroused.  She  felt  certain  that  he  would  again  make  his 
usual  fiasco.  As  the  rejuvenated  old  goat  bounded 
over  the  sidewalk,  his  blood  tingling  with  the  passion 
of  youth  and  Damiana  Mormon  Elder's  Wafers,  a 
pretty  puss  of  eighteen  touched  his  elbow.  She  was  an 


178  PAINTED  VEILS 

impudent  mutt,  but  provocative.     She  winked  and 
whispered : 

"Hello  Pop !  Come  along  and  I'll  give  you  the  time 
of  your  life" !  and  by  God  he  went  with  her,  and  that 
patient  Griselda  waiting  for  him  in  his  second  home, 
not  to  mention  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  at  home  (where 
she  played  a  stiff  Bridge  every  afternoon  and  never 
bothered  her  head  about  her  foolish  matrimonial 
partner).  Yes,  he  went  to  the  new  rifle-range  and 
heaven  knows  what  lie  he  invented  for  the  benefit  of 
his  mistress.  The  affair  only  proves  that  any  woman 
who  can  give  to  an  old  man  the  illusion  of  virility,  he  will 
not  only  marry  her,  but  he  will  wear  her  on  his  heart  of 
hearts;  become  her  slave,  in  fact.  Sex  dies  hard  in  us, 
and  dispite  popular  belief,  it  is  the  last  of  the  passions, 
pushing  out  avarice  and  gluttony,  which  pair  of  enter 
taining  passions  are  supposed  to  illuminate  the  dusty 
lonesome  years  of  a  man's  existence.  Goethe  married 
his  cook,  a  stout  country  wench  who  drank  herself 
into  her  grave  in  the  august  presence  of  her  husband- 
poet.  And  all  those  old  women  titled  and  otherwise 
who  marry  coachmen,  gardeners  and  grooms,  husky 
young  fellows — do  they  do  this  for  intellectual  com 
panionship?  The  darky  woman  who  said  when  asked 
as  to  her  sex  emotions :  "I'se  over  eighty.  You've  got 
to  ask  some  lady  older  than  me,"  illustrates  that  sex 
fights  as  long  as  it  can.  The  original  Adam  in  us.  That 
De  Gourmont  theory,  Ulick,  is  a  horrible  idea;  sex  is 
hideous  if  you  study  it.  Let  the  boys  and  girls  keep 


PAINTED  VEILS  179 

their  illusions  and  don't  let  them  believe  old  Schopen 
hauer  and  his  instinct  of  the  species  dictating  their 
destiny" — "For  the  sake  of  sanity,  Alfred,  shut  your 
trap  and  let's  go  home.  Wake  up,  Bell.  There's  a 
fresh  wife  waiting  you,"  said  Ulick,  glad  to  get  away. 
"Which  wife?"  sleepily  inquired  Bell.  "It  seems  as  if 
a  crowd  of  men  can't  end  the  evening  without  talking 
sex"  grumbled  Ulick.  "I'm  sick  of  sex."  "So  are  we 
all,"  Stone  assented,  "because  sex  is  a  sickly  thing. 
It's  not  health  and  conservation,  but  destruction, 
disease,  death."  Ulick  fairly  ran  from  him  when  they 
reached  the  street.  Sex  and  damnation!  he  said  be 
tween  his  teeth. 

The  first  news  of  Easter  came  over  the  cables.  She 
made  her  debut  at  a  concert  in  Berlin  under  the  power 
ful  wing  of  Lilli  Lehmann  and  achieved  a  remarkable 
success.  Her  brilliant  beauty  was  a  factor,  but  it  was 
her  voice,  luscious  as  an  August  sunset  and  her  emo 
tional  temperament  that  caused  the  furore.  (A  press- 
agent's  fiction.  There  are  no  "furores"  in  concert  rooms, 
or  at  the  opera.  A  lot  of  noise-loving  imbeciles  stamp 
their  feet  and  shout.  The  claque  is  always  busy. 
Hysterical  criticism  does  the  rest.)  Certain  exalted 
personages  in  the  royal-box  condescended  to  express 
their  approval  of  Fraiilein  Esther  Brandes,  who  was  at 
once  offered  huge  sums  to  sign  a  contract  for  future 
European  appearances.  (These  offers  are  always  an 
nounced  in  cablegrams.)  Easter  must  have  been 


180  PAINTED  VEILS 

ubiquitous  for  in  the  foreign  dispatches  next  day  was  a 
sensational  account  of  a  duel  she  fought  with  Mary 
Garden  in  the  Bois  at  Paris  with  Johnstone  Bennett — 
dear  old  sporting  "Johnny"  as  referee.  Sybil  Sander 
son  and  Augusta  Holmes  sat  in  a  balcony  and  com 
pared  scandals.  Mary,  lithe,  elastic,  and  younger  than 
Easter,  pinked  her  antagonist.  The  duellists  clasped 
hands  and  the  party,  chiefly  composed  of  Parisian  news 
paper  men,  adjourned  to  Pr6  au  Catalan  there  to  drink 
fresh  milk  and  stale  gossip.  Rumour  had  it  that  the 
two  girls  were  in  love  with  the  same  man,  no  less  than 
the  fascinating  barytone  at  the  Opera,  Maurice  Renaud. 
When  Allie  Wentworth,  who  was  Easter's  second,  read 
this  in  "Le  Soir"  she  burst  into  laughter  and  showed  the 
story  to  "Johnny",  who  only  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette 
repeating  the  classic,  "cinq  lettres,  le  mot  de  Cam- 
bronne." 


THE  FIFTH  GATE 

At  the  fifth  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;   he  took  off 
the  girdle  that  encompasses  her  waist  .     .     . 


Alfred  Stone  as  he  stood  on  the  boardwalk  opposite 
the  Marlborough-Blenheim  asked  himself  why  some 
bold  thinker  had  not  elucidated  the  psychology  of 
Atlantic  City.  It  has  no  moral  landscape,  he  told  him 
self,  though  it  boasts  the  finest  of  seascapes.  If  there 
had  been  invented,  as  there  will  be  some  day,  a  psychic 
cinematograph,  then,  perhaps,  a  complete  picture  might 
be  presented  of  this  vulgar  and  fascinating  resort — for 
vulgar  in  the  sense  of  popularity  it  unquestionably  is; 
monumentally  vulgar,  epically  vulgar — epical,  that 
is  the  precise  word.  There  is  a  sweep  of  colour,  a  breezi- 
ness  of  space,  a  riot  of  sound  and  a  chaos  of  movement 
that  appal  because  of  their  amplitude.  All  creation 
seems  out-of-doors.  You  jostle  elbows  with  the  man 
from  Hindustan,  the  man  from  Newark,  the  man  from 
London,  and  the  man  from  California.  Black,  white, 
red,  yellow,  brown  and  nondescript  races  mingle  on  the 
boardwalk  in  that  never-ending  promenade  from  the 
Inlet  to  Chelsea.  Between  the  Pickle  and  the  Mil 
lion  Dollar  Piers  the  course  of  humanity  takes  its  way. 
In  that  section  it  is  thickest.  At  every  other  step  you 
use  the  short-arm  jolt.  In  ten  minutes  you  long  for  the 
comparative  ease  of  the  rush-hour  at  Brooklyn  Bridge. 

Atlantic  City  is  a  queer  Cosmopolis,  and  a  Cosmop- 
olis  that  could  easily  perish  in  a  giant  inundation,  so 


184  PAINTED  VEILS 

closely  does  it  hug  the  rim  of  the  sea.  It  is  ugly,  with 
the  attractive  ugliness  of  modern  life.  It  is  also  many 
other  things.  Not  Ostend,  Dieppe,  Brighton 
in  England,  Trouville,  Scheveningen,  Boulogne, 
nor  yet  Etretat,  Naples,  nor  the  Riviera  rival  the  infinite 
variety  of  Atlantic  City.  It  is  not  a  retreat  for  those 
introspectively  inclined.  It  is  all  on  the  surface;  it  is 
hard,  glittering,  unspeakably  cacaphonous,  and  it 
never  sleeps.  If  you  long  to  loaf  and  invite  your  nerves, 
Cape  May  is  preferable. 

The  medley  of  life,  the  roaring  of  megaphones,  the 
frantic  rush  and  gabble  of  a  babel-like  chorus,  the 
dazzling  single  line  of  booths,  divans,  stores,  holes-in- 
the-wall  hotels,  caf6es,  carrousels,  soda-fountains,  side 
shows,  the  buzzing  of  children,  the  shouting  newsboys, 
the  appeals  of  fakirs,  the  swift  glance  of  eyes  feminine, 
the  scowl  of  beach-hawks  and  the  innocent  mien  of 
bucolics — a  Walt  Whitman  catalogue  would  not 
exhaust  this  metropolis  of  the  sea,  this  paradise  of 
"powerful  uneducated  persons,"  patricians,  billion 
aires  and  shabby  folk.  And  the  piers — a  second 
city  on  steel  and  wooden  stilts,  extending  a  half  mile 
across  the  water,  containing  a  hundred  diversions. 
These  piers  recall  the  evolution  from  the  lake-dwellers 
of  Central  Europe,  whose  lacustrine  deposits  we  marvel 
over,  just  as  huge  structures  reared  skyward,  modern 
hotels,  are  the  highly  developed  habitat  of  the  cliff- 
dwellers.  Doubtless  thousands  of  years  hence  ardent 
archeologists  will  rummage  into  the  deposits  of  ancient 


PAINTED  VEILS  185 

Atlantic  City  and  weave  a  philosophic  system  from 
the  strange  shapes  discovered;  combs,  coprolites, 
corsets,  hairpins,  shovels,  flasks,  and  other  "kitchen 
midden"  of  the  present  time. 

If  the  Coleridge  of  Kubla  Khan,  or  the  Poe  of  the 
Domain  of  Arnheim  could  see  the  fantastic  structures 
on  the  beach,  those  poets  would  sigh  with  satisfaction. 
In  our  chilly  aesthetic  air,  ruminated  Alfred,  where 
utility  leads  beauty  by  the  nose,  the  spectacle  of  an 
architect  giving  reign  to  his  fancy  and  conceiving  such 
an  exotic  pile  as  the  hyphenated-hotel  is  a  refreshing 
one.  The  author  of  Vathek,  William  Beckford,  could 
have  wished  for  nothing  richer.  This  architecture 
might  be  Byzantine.  It  suggests  St.  Marco  at  Venice, 
St.  Sophia  at  Constantinople,  also  a  Hindoo  palace, 
with  its  crouching  dome,  operatic  fagade,  and  its 
dominating  monolinths  with  the  blunt  tops  of  con 
crete;  the  exterior  decoration  is  a  luxurious  exfoliation 
in  hues;  turquoise  and  fawn.  It  is  a  dream-architec 
ture,  this,  with  its  evocations  of  Asiatic  color  and  music. 

But  Atlantic  City  at  night.  Alfred  recalled  it  as 
a  picture  for  such  different  painters  as  Whistler  or 
Toulouse-Lantrec.  A  sight  not  to  be  duplicated. 
Miles  of  electric  lamps  light  up  the  boardwalk.  Even 
the  darker  spaces  above  the  Pickle-Pier  are  festooned 
with  lace-like  fire.  It  is  a  carnival  of  flame.  You  may 
start  from  the  Inlet  with  an  open  book,  walk  for  miles, 
perusing  it  all  the  while,  until  you  reach  the  lower  end 
of  the  promenade  and  touch  the  last  wooden  rail.  The 


186  PAINTED  VEILS 

enormous  amount  of  electricity  consumed  seems  to 
make  the  air  vital.  Through  those  garlands  of  light 
moves  a  mob  of  well-behaved  humans.  The  women  are 
more  mysterious  than  during  the  day  time.  If  you  are 
still  youthful  you  encounter  magnetic  glances.  Dazz 
ling  glances.  Sumptuous  evening  toilettes  assault  your 
nerves.  Wealth  envelopes  you.  Apparently  there  is 
no  poverty,  no  sickness,  no  unhappiness  in  existence. 
The  optimistic  exuberance  of  the  American  is  seen  here 
at  its  most  depressing.  Mark  Tapley  run  to  seed. 
There  is  a  suggestion  of  the  overblown,  of  the  snobbish, 
in  this  al-fresco  display;  yet  if  you  are  not  seeking  the 
fly  in  the  ointment  you  may  enjoy  as  you  would  enjoy 
the  gorgeous  tableaux  of  Aida  or  Salammbo.  It  is  all 
as  unreal.  How  vulgar,  how  damnably  vulgar!  ex 
claimed  Alfred,  and  he  remembered  the  women  he  had 
seen  at  his  hotel,  their  fingers  hooped  with  opals, 
emeralds,  sapphires,  and  diamonds,  and  holding  green 
corn  on  the  cob  to  their  sensual  lips.  A  dozen  mouths 
simultaneously  opened,  pink  and  pearly  traps;  there 
was  a  snapping  of  dentals,  a  gnashing  of  corn.  The 
diamonds  flashed,  the  emeralds  blazed  with  murky  green 
fire,  and  the  sinister  opalescence  of  the  unlucky  stone 
matched  the  colour  of  the  succulent  slaughtered  vege 
table.  Surely  no  other  vegetable  but  corn  could  enjoy 
such  a  scintillating  death  at  the  teeth  of  those  pretty, 
overdressed  matrons  and  silly  maids.  Alfred  shuddered 
at  the  memory.  Then  he  saw  something  that  gave  him 
cduasea  start  and  him  to  whistle,  interrogatively. 


PAINTED  VEILS  187 

Coming  toward  him  was  Mona  Milton  keeping  in 
tow  a  blond  youth  in  flannels.  Evidently  she  had  spied 
Alfred  first.  She  made  a  friendly  signal,  then  turning 
on  her  escort,  she  spoke  words  that  acted  as  would  a 
magical  formula  for  disappearance.  He  faded  into  the 
crowd  and  Mona  was  soon  shaking  hands  with  the 
critic. 

"You!  What  good  wind  blew  you  down  here"? 
"You  of  course,  how  can  you  ask"?  He  spoke  in  his 
accustomed  cynical  strain.  She  passed  it  over.  Some 
thing  distracted  her.  "Did  you  see  Milt  recently"? 
she  asked,  but  she  did  not  look  him  in  the  eye.  She 
means  Ulick,  was  Alfred's  interior  comment.  "Why 
yes",  he  briskly  replied.  "Yes,  Milt  was  with  us  the 
other  night  at  the  Arena."  "At  the  Arena"?  she 
faintly  echoed.  There  was  a  pause.  He  proposed  that 
they  should  walk  toward  the  Inlet.  The  air  is  fresher 
there.  He  told  her  that  he  had  felt  his  feed,  hence  his 
unexpected  appearance  and  he  politely  inquired  as  to 
the  state  of  her  mother's  health.  "You  see,"  she  said, 
"Hot  Springs  proved  too  enervating  for  mamma,  and 
I  proposed  a  spell  of  salt  air.  We  shan't  stay  longer 
than  a  week  or  two.  Poor  papa — alone  with  his  meta 
physics  and  his  eternal  chess  at  the  Century.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  he  can't  get  along  without  us,  vous 
autres,  you  men  are  always  more  self-centred  than  the 
women.  You  have  your  clubs,  your  games,  and  as  a 
final  resort  your  library.  Still,  papa  must  miss  mamma. 
So  home  we  go  by  the  beginning  of  July "  "And 


188  PAINTED  VEILS 

to  the  most  heated  time  in  the  season."  "Oh,  I  don't 
much  mind  the  heat.  I  read.  I  play  a  little.  There  is 
the  park  a  block  away  and  .  .  ."  "And  Ulick?" 
"Ulick?  Mr.  Invern?  What  in  the  world  makes  you 
drag  in  his  name?"  She  was  cool,  unblushing,  but 
her  eyes  glowed  expressively. 

"Come,  come,  Mona,  you  can't  pull  the  wool  over 
the  eyes  of  this  citizen.  I  know  all  about  your  promen 
ades,  your  luncheons  in  darkest  Martin's,  your  park  rides 
and  presumable  holding  hands  in  three  languages.  I  will 
be  frank  with  you.  I  don't  approve  of  the  intrigue." 
"Intrigue!"  she  cried,  visibly  moved.  He  noticed  it 
and  continued,  rather  elated:  "Yes,  that's  what  the 
affair  is,  Mona,  understand  me,  I  don't  mean  intrigue 
with  vulgar  connations.  That  Master  Ulick  reserves 
for  his  mistress  Dora  Anonymous.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mona,  I  didn't  mean  to  startle  you."  She  had  relin 
quished  his  arm,  abruptly  turned  to  the  rail  of  the 
boardwalk  and  gazed  seaward.  Alfred  was  furious 
with  himself.  He  knew  that  he  shouldn't  have  so 
awkwardly  blurted  out  the  facts  of  another  man's 
private  peccadilloes,  but  he  couldn't  help  himself  and 
now  he  had  hurt  the  one  woman  in  the  world  that  he 
thoroughly  respected.  He  meditated.  Her  back 
didn't  invite  conversation;  worse  still,  she  was  hum 
ming.  That  he  knew  was  a  storm-warning.  A  school 
mate  of  Milt's,  he  had  been  a  visitor  in  the  family  for 
a  decade  and  more.  He  threw  away  his  cigarette.  Then 
he  grasped  Mona's  left  arm.  She  did  not  repulse  him. 


PAINTED  VEILS  189 

She  still  hummed  a  tune,  one  that  he  recognized. 
Carmen's  song  of  defiance.  "Mona,  I  humbly  apolo 
gize  for  my  imprudence.  I  didn't  mean  to  give  Ulick 
away,  but  I  hate  to  see  you  throw  yourself  at  his  feet." 
She  turned;  he  noted  that  while  her  eyes  were  wet — 
such  lovely,  appealing  eyes — she  was  smiling.  "You 
dear  stupid  old  Alfred.  With  all  your  clairvoyance, 
can't  you  see  that  I  don't  care  whether  Mr.  Invern  has 
one  or  ten  mistresses?  I'm  annoyed  only  because  you 
venture  to  scold  me  because  I  dare  go  about  with  him. 
Pray,  since  when  are  you  become  the  keeper  of  my 
conscience?  You — of  all  men?  I'll  keep  company  with 
Ulick — with  Mr.  Invern  as  much  as  I  please.  Yes,  and 
hold  hands  with  him  if  I  care  to."  She  was  amused. 
"I  suppose  you  will  tell  Milt."  He  was  confused  and 
murmured:  "I've  told  him  already.  Don't  go  away 
Mona — he  took  it  quite  calmly,  I  assure  you."  But 
she  was  aroused.  He  had  never  seen  this  charming 
girl  with  the  placid  temper  in  a  rage.  She  stamped  her 
foot  crying:  "Go  away,  go  away  from  me  at  once,  and 
please  don't  come  to  our  house  while  Milt  is  away.  I 
shall  refuse  to  see  you."  Then  she  cut  into  one  of  the 
side  streets  and  Alfred  found  himself  in  turn  looking  at 
the  sea  and  watching  with  vague  eyes  the  chugging 
motor-boats.  He  went  over  to  Atlantic  Avenue,  to 
the  "Extra-Dry  Cafe"  and  drank  whisky  cocktails. 

That  same  evening,  undaunted,  he  called  at  the  St. 
Charles  and  asked  for  Mrs.  Milton.  She  received  him 
with  her  accustomed  undemonstrative  cordiality;  she 


190  PAINTED  VEILS 

possessed  to  an  unusual  degree  the  tact  of  omission. 
Mona  on  her  return — long  after  the  dinner-hour — 
hinted  that  Alfred  and  she  had  indulged  in  an  absurd 
quarrel.  But  she  did  not  divulge  the  cause.  Alfred  is 
always  Alfred,  she  explained  and  went  upstairs  to 
change  her  walking  attire  for  evening  clothes.  From 
the  corner  of  her  eye  she  saw  him  talking  to  her  mother. 
She  had  her  youthful  cavalier  of  the  afternoon  at  her 
side  and,  as  if  to  show  Alfred  that  there  was  more  than 
one  man  on  the  globe  besides  Ulick,  she  flirted  and 
gossiped  to  such  effect  that  the  young  man  lost  his 
head  and  squeezed  her  hand,  blushing  as  he  did  so. 
She  did  not  move  for  she  saw  that  Alfred  had  witnessed 
the  scene.  He  nodded  in  her  direction,  lifting  ironical 
eyebrows.  That  decided  her.  She  beckoned  to  him 
much  to  the  disgust  of  her  infatuated  companion.  She 
again  waved  her  magic  wand  of  dismissal.  He  evapor 
ated  into  thin  air;  he  was  hardly  more  substantial 
himself.  "Come  here  Alfred  if  mamma  will  spare  you. 
I  have  something  to  tell  you."  Her  mother,  pleased  to 
see  that  the  best  friend  of  her  beloved  son  was  to  be 
taken  again  into  the  good  graces  of  her  daughter, 
moved  indoors,  giving  sleepiness  as  an  excuse.  "Don't 
you  young  people  stay  up  too  late.  The  salt  air  is  very 
damp.  Good  night  Alfred.  I  hope  to  see  you  in  the 
morning." 


PAINTED  VEILS  191 

II 

"Listen,  Alfred.  Sit  down  and  listen.  I  don't  wish 
you  to  think  I'm  such  a  ninny  as  to  fancy  a  young 
man  like  Ulick  is  without  his  distractions.  Only  keep 

your  Doras  to  yourself "  "Which  Ulick  can't 

accomplish.  He  shares  her  with  Paul  Godard," 
eagerly  broke  in  Alfred.  "No  scandal  please,"  she 
remonstrated.  "His  private  affairs — the  private  affairs 
of  the  mercurial  Paul — I  confess  I  like  Paul,  he  is  at 
least  well-bred — do  not  concern  me,  but  what  does 
interest  me  is  your  honest  opinion  of  Ulick  Invern's 
character.  As  he  is  your  closest  friend  you  are  bound 
in  honour  to  give  him  a  bad  black  eye  for  my  special 
benefit.  But  I  shall  discount  your  abuse.  So  go  ahead 
and  get  rid  of  your  venom."  He  was  hurt  by  the 
flippant  manner  of  this  invitation.  He  didn't  mind 
the  imputation,  for  he  prided  himself  on  his  sharp 
tongue  and  epigrammatic  slashing  at  other  people's 
good  names,  but  like  most  cynics  he  feared  critical 
guns  trained  on  his  own  sensitive  self.  She  laughed 
all  the  more.  In  a  cold  sullen  irritation  he  spoke  his 
little  piece  with  Ulick  as  thesis. 

"You  greatly  mistake  me  Mona  if  you  think  I  under 
estimate  the  splendid  qualities  of  Invern.  He  is  a 
good  friend,  a  friend  in  need.  Generosity  of  spirit  he 
abounds  in.  It  is  his  strong  point,  also  his  weakest. 
He  is  too  receptive.  He  may  write  well  some  day,  yet 
I  don't  believe  the  man  will  go  far.  Again  his  pro 
crastination,  his  receptivity,  his  money,  will  all  militate 


192  PAINTED  VEILS 

against  his  achieving  what  he  calls  artistic  success, 
what  I  call  blithering  nonsense.  Why,  if  he  had  a  genu 
ine  personality,  I  mean,  of  course,  an  artistic  personal 
ity,  he  would  not  talk  so  much  about  evolving  one — 
which  he  does  about  a  dozen  times  daily.  That's  num 
ber  one.  Number  two  is  his  weakness  concerning  your 
sex."  She  lifted  a  deprecating  hand.  "I  shan't  bother 
you  with  any  stories  about  the  way  he  shoots  off  his 
young  fireworks.  That  is  only  a  liberation  of  his  surplus 
energy.  If  he  didn't  pursue  the  Eternal  Feminine,  if 
he  didn't  go  in  quest  of  the  elusive  girl,  he  might  be 
drinking  or  gambling — like  myself.  Mind  you,  I  don't 
give  him  any  credit  for  not  indulging  in  the  sports  of 
the  average  male.  He  saw  too  much  of  dissipation 
when  he  was  young.  The  old  man  drank  himself  to 
death,  and  would  have  gambled  away  his  wife's  fortune 
if  it  had  not  been  tied  up  so  securely  by  her  father, 
Bartlett  the  banker.  No,  I  don't  take  any  stock  in 
Ulick's  negative  virtues.  If  he  didn't  hate  the  taste  of 
alcohol  and  the  smell  of  tobacco,  he  would  be  like  the 
rest  of  us;  perhaps  worse.  I  only  hope  he  won't  take 
to  booze  when  he  is  mature;  no  hope  for  him  if  he  does. 
Late  boozers  never  reform.  My  chief  criticism,  my 
dear  Mona,  is  directed  against  his  instability  of  charac 
ter.  Ulick  is  true  to  any  wind  that  blows.  He  is  an 
emotional  weathercock.  Any  petticoat  that  crosses  his 
vision  attracts  him  and  the  last  becomes  the  Eternal 
She  who  must  be  obeyed.  In  speaking  for  your  good, 
Mona,  just  remember  his  infatuation  for  Easter,  and 


PAINTED  VEILS  193 

now — she  is  only  a  year  gone  and  it's  out  of  sight,  out 
of  mind  with  him." 

Mona  attentively  listened.  At  the  casual  reference 
to  Easter  she  asked:  "What  sort  of  a  girl  is  this  Easter — 
what's  her  real  name?"  "Esther  Brandes.  No.  She 
isn't  a  Jewess,  though  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  learn 
that  her  mysterious  father — she  seldom  refers  to  his 
existence — was  of  the  tribe.  Danish,  they  say,  a  coun 
tryman  of  Georg  Brandes.  What  sort?  A  very  good 
sort,  I  assure  you,  altogether  apart  from  her  musical 
and  dramatic  gifts.  Now,  there's  a  woman  who  will  go 
far,  because  she  possesses  what  Ulick  lacks;  singleness 
of  purpose.  She  only  sees  artistic  success,  and  she 
goes  straight  for  it.  She  will  get  there  with  both  feet,  as 
the  saying  is.  Esther  Brandes  in  ten  years  may  be 
treading  in  the  august  footsteps  of  Lilli  Lehmann. 
Who  knows!  Why  did  she  fight  a  duel  with  Mary 
Garden?  you  ask.  Probably  because  she  saw  a  chance 
to  get  into  the  cable  news.  Mary  is  canny.  Esther  is 
cannier.  She  would  fight  with  Frida  Ash  if  she  thought 
it  would  bring  forth  a  newspaper  paragraph.  She 
knows  the  ropes.  Publicity.  Notoriety.  Anything 
scandalous,  so  that  she  is  not  forgotten.  That's  why  I 
believe  she  will  win  out.  Ulick — never.  He  hasn't  the 
staying  power.  He  won't  take  punishment.  He  is  a 
dreamer  and  an  egotist.  He  fondly  believes  that  he  is 
becoming  a  good  American  when  he  is  only  a  deracin 
ated  cosmopolitan.  His  place  is  Paris,  not  New  York. 
In  the  end  he  will  be  only  a  spoiled  Parisian." 


194  PAINTED  VEILS 

"He  complains  that  everyone  advises  him  to  return 
to  Paris,"  interjected  Mona,  who  seemed  sleepy. 
"And  jolly  good  advice  it  is.  I'm  telling  you  nothing 
novel,  Mona;  your  brother  Milt  has  discoursed  Ulick, 
his  talents — he  has  more  than  one.  Did  you  ever  hear 
him  play  Chopin? — his  personality;  a  chameleon,  I 
tell  you,  a  charming  chameleon,  intellectually  incon 
stant,  and  always  to  be  watched.  I  hope  you  haven't 
fallen  too  deeply  in  love  with  him  not  to  pull  out  when 
you  understand  his  real  character — or  want  of  it.  He 
is  quite  capable  of  passing  the  night  with  two  or  three 
women  if  the  mood  is  upon  him,  and  physical  circum 
stances  favourable.  Pardon  me,  Mona,  if  I  speak 

plainly.  I  am  concerned  for  your  welfare,  else" 

She  rose,  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"That's  the  consecrated  phrase,  Alfred.  The  most 
interesting  part  of  your  highly  moral  discourse  was 
your  description  of  Easter.  She  intrigues  my  curiosity. 
Do  you  suppose  that  Ulick  will  tumble  over  when  she 
returns"?  Alfred  was  surly.  "I  dare  say.  But  I'm 
not  his  keeper.  Good-night,  and  good-bye,  Mona.  I 
go  up  in  the  morning.  May  I  run  in  on  your  return"? 
Mona  nodded.  "You  may.  Milt  will  be  with  us  for 
his  annual  vacation,  and  you  ought  to  sleep  well  to 
night  after  demolishing  two  reputations."  Alfred 
grunted  a  farewell. 


PAINTED  VEILS  195 

III 

Milt  was  punctual  and  the  friends  ate  one  of  Madame 
Felice's  excellent  luncheons  in  a  receptive  mood.  The 
conversation  ranged  from  food  to  metaphysics.  "Ah, 
Ulick"!  cried  Milt,  who  was  unusually  expansive, 
"if  you  would  only  make  up  your  mind  as  to  your 
future."  "But  I  have,"  asserted  Ulick.  "I  have.  I 
mean  to  become  a  good  American  citizen  and  write 
artistic  books."  "I  doubt  if  you  will  ever  become  one 
or  accomplish  the  other,"  was  the  unexpected  criticism 
of  this  young  theological  student,  who  saw  life  steadily. 
"The  foreign  virus  is  in  your  blood,  Ulick.  You  are  one- 
half  Frenchman,  the  other  half  cosmopolitan;  both  are 
fatal  to  true  Americanism.  You  should  have  remained 

in  Paris —  "Another"!    groaned  Ulick "and 

married  some  nice  girl,  any  nationality  so  she  would 
be  nice,  raise  a  family  and  settle  down."  "What  a  dear 
old  philistine  you  are,  Milt.  Why  don't  you?"  Milt 
slightly  coloured.  "Because  I've  chosen  the  better  part 
like  Mary  in  the  gospel.  The  highest  function  per 
mitted  man  is  that  of  the  priest.  Many  are  called,  few 
chosen.  I  tremble  before  the  responsibility  of  my 
vocation.  I  can  only  pray  in  all  humility  that  I  shall 
not  be  an  unworthy  servant  of  the  Lord."  Ulick 
suddenly  changed  the  subject  by  asking:  "Milt,  what 
is  your  first  name?  I've  never  heard  you  called  any 
thing  but  Milt,  except  when  Alfred  calls  you  Mel." 
Milt  solemnly  envisaged  his  questioner.  "My  first 
name  is  a  secret.  Alfred  happens  to  know  because  we 


196  PAINTED  VEILS 

were  at  college  for  years  in  the  same  classes.  It  is  a 
name  sacred  to  me,  my  mother's  idea,  yet  a  name  that 
I  fear  to  use  because  it  excites  mirth.  "Good  heavens! 
what  an  awful  name  it  must  be.  Melodeon  or 
molasses"?  "I  said  sacred,  Ulick.  Let's  drop  the  ques 
tion."  Milt  was  so  grave  that  his  companion  shrugged 
in  despair. 

"Why  do  you  think  I'll  never  write  artistic  books"? 
he  demanded.  "It's  not  the  artistic  I'm  fearing,  it's  the 
fact  that  unless  you  develop  character  your  books  will 
not  even  fill  the  belly  with  the  east  wind."  "Precisely 
what  Huysmans  said.  Without  personality,  no  talent 
in  a  writer."  "Your  Huysmans  left  out  morality  in  his 
schedule."  "What's  morality  got  to  do  with  art?" 
"Only  this,"  earnestly  continued  Milt,  "it  must  be  at 
least  implicit  in  every  book  a  man  or  woman  writes, 
else  the  book  will  rot.  Don't  forget — decayed  souls 
stink.  The  books  of  your  predilection  are  such  that 
he  who  reads  must  run  away,  or  imperil  his  soul's 
salvation.  Vanitas!  Ulick.  I  speak  without  picking 
amiable  words.  Yours  is  a  case  that  demands  radical 
treatment."  "Wait  a  bit.  I'm  not  religious.  Your 
God  is  too  remote  for  me.  From  the  frosty  altitude 
where  he  reigns  he  makes  no  sign  of  granting  our 
prayers.  Does  he  even  love  his  grovelling  earth- 
creatures"?  Milt  was  not  shocked  at  these  impetuous 
questions.  "Baruch  Spinoza  has  said:  'That  whoso 
loveth  God  truly,  must  not  expect  to  be  loved  by  God 


PAINTED  VEILS  197 

in  return.'"  "But  Spinoza  was  a  Jew  and  an  atheist. 
Neither  his  synagogue  nor  the  Christian  Church  would 
have  aught  of  him."  "True,"  answered  Milt,  "I  only 
quoted  him  to  prove  my  contention.  Finite  creatures 
must  love  their  creator.  The  act  of  worship  constitutes 
their  salvation."  Again  Ulick  groaned.  "What  has 
your  religion  to  do  with  my  projected  books"?  He 
was  getting  impatient  at  the  airs  of  amateur  omnis 
cience  assumed  by  the  other.  They  went  to  Ulick's 
chamber. 

Milt's  eye  roved  over  the  books  on  a  dozen  shelves. 
"Ah!  Here  are  your  gods.  Stendhal,  Baudelaire, 
Flaubert,  Anatole  France,  Huysmans,  Maurice  Barres 
— how  I  loathe  that  metaphysical  dandy! — Nietzsche, 
unfortunate  madman,  Ibsen,  Max  Stirner,  William 
Blake,  another  lunatic — a  nice  gang  of  mind-poisoners. 
With  exception  of  Huysmans  they  are  corrupters  of 
youth.  Listen  to  this —  -"  and  he  opened  on  the  last 
page  of  "A  Rebours"  'Take  pity,  O  Lord,  on  the  Chris 
tian  who  doubts,  on  the  sceptic  who  seeks  to  believe, 
on  the  convict  of  life,  who  embarks  alone,  in  the  night, 
beneath  a  sky  no  longer  lit  by  the  consoling  beacons  of 
ancient  faith.'  For  me,  that  is  the  saddest  sentence 
in  all  the  music  of  your  prose-men.  Great  artists? 
Yes.  But  guides  to  damnation.  Moral  anarchs,  their 
teaching  will  lead  to  the  anarchy  of  physical  violence. 
Mark  my  words.  All  Europe  will  suffer  sometime  from 
their  doctrines.  As  for  your  Barres,  while  he  is  no 
longer  the  anarch  of  his  Enemy  of  the  Laws  and  is 


198  PAINTED  VEILS 

going  in  for  nationalism  nowadays,  nevertheless  his 
is  a  dilettante  preciosity  whose  gift  of  assimilation  is 
his  prime  quality.  Also  to  be  labelled  'dangerous', 
though  only  for  the  intellectual.  He  possesses  a  barren 
imagination.  I  grant  you  he  writes  supple,  harmonious 
prose,  though  he  is  a  mere  neophyte  compared  with 
those  charming  princes  of  corruption,  Ernest  Renan 
and  Anatole  France.  All  your  modern  heroes,  whom 
you  resemble,  Ulick,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  derive  from  that 
abominable  Julien  Sorel  in  Stendhal's  Red  and  Black. 
The  admirable  antidote  to  that  criminal,  free-man, 
individualist,  is  Robert  Greslou  in  Paul  Bourget's 
Disciple.  Therein  you  may  see  where  unbridled 
indulgence,  whether  in  thought  or  act,  will  lead  a 
young  man.  What  are  you  writing  just  now,  Ulick"? 
Milt  took  up  some  sheets  from  the  desk. 

"Oh,  this  a  very  bad.  What  next?  'Ideas  and  Im 
ages  of  Evil.'  That's  simply  a  Baudelairian  title,  and 
while  that  wonderful  poet — yes,  I  won't  deny  that  I 
have  read  him  with  more  interest  than  the  atheist 
Victor  Hugo — recognized  the  existence  of  evil,  of  a 
personal  devil,  Satan  or  Lucifer,  he  didn't  fall  down 
and  worship  him."  "How  about  the  Litany  of  Satan"? 
interrupted  Ulick.  "It  is  to  be  read  in  a  Manichean 
sense.  It  is  objective."  "And  how  about  Carducci's 
Hymn  to  Satan?  ('Inno  a  Satana') 

"Salute,  O  Satana 
O  ribellione 
O  forza  vindice 
Delia  ragione." 


PAINTED  VEILS  199 

"Simply  Italianate  Baudelaire,"  cried  Milt,  and  in 
a  rage  he  exclaimed:  "You  actually  memorize  such  vile 
blasphemers.  But  I'm  very  sure  you  can't  repeat  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  the  Confiteor,  or  recite  the  Litany  of  our 
Blessed  Virgin."  Ulick  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
his  hands  clasped,  his  eyes  closed,  and  recited  the  prayer, 
the  Confiteor  and  the  Litany,  adding  in  a  low  voice, 
"A  pure  heart  pierceth  heaven  and  hell."  Milt  was 
overjoyed.  He  shook  Ulick's  hand,  crying:  "You 
know  Thomas  a  Kempis,  too?  Come,  there  is  hope 
for  your  immortal  soul.  Oh,  Ulick!  Why  don't  you 
forswear  your  evil  ways  of  living!  Give  over  your 
inveterate  concupiscence."  Ulick  answered  by  quoting : 
"Tandem  ergo  discubuimus  pueris  Alexandrinis  ..." 

"Stop,  Ulick!  How  dare  you  quote  that  vilest  of 
pagans,  Petronius  Arbiter,  almost  in  the  same  breath 
with  the  divine  a  Kempis?"  For  answer  Ulick  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  tiny  book  entitled  "The  Christian's 
Pattern,  by  Thomas  a  Kempis,  edited  by  John  Wesley 
A.  M."  bearing  the  date  1832  and  published  in  New 
York,  by  Charles  Wells.  "My  mother's  copy,"  he 
curtly  said.  Milt  saw  a  feminine  signature  in  the  bat 
tered  little  copy.  He  was  much  touched  by  the  image 
of  Ulick's  filial  piety  prompting  him  to  carry  about  him 
his  mother's  favorite  prayers — for  what  else  are  those 
meditations  of  the  practically  unknown  mediaeval 
monk  but  sighs  of  suffering  wafted  on  high  by  a  burn 
ing  soul!  Ulick  added:  "I  read  Petronius  every  day." 
Milt  sketched  a  gesture  of  despair.  He  could  make  no 


200  PAINTED  VEILS 

answer  to  a  man  who  blew  hot  and  cold  in  the  same 
breath.  A  Kempis  and  Petronius.  Ormuzd  and  Ahri- 
man!  Apollo  and  Marsyas.  Lucifer,  when  he  was 
Prince  of  the  Morning,  and  Satan  Mekatrig.  Milt 
switched  the  conversation. 

"Among  the  subjects  discussed  the  other  night  at 
the  Arena  you  spoke  of  something  your  friend  Remy  de 
Gourmont  told  you.  You  remember?  It  was  to  this 
effect:  that  mankind,  all  organic  life,  is  the  slave  of  its 
reproductive  organs;  that  those  ancient  cults  were 
justified  in  worshipping  the  phallus,  and  the  female  sex- 
principle.  Do  you  know,  Ulick,  that  the  teaching 
of  our  Church  doesn't  widely  differ  from  that  horrible 
idea.  Sexuality  is  our  master — if  we  let  it  rule;  from 
that  to  the  worship  of  those  organs,  in  a  word,  devil 
worship,  is  only  a  step.  I  wonder  you  haven't  noticed 
the  grimly  brief  distance  between  the  highest  type  of 
intellect,  if  not  guided  by  faith,  and  the  beasts  of  the 
field.  The  most  depraved  of  degenerates  sometimes 
have  been  men  of  lofty  genius  and  in  their  fall  they  gro 
velled  in  filth.  Gods  become  gorillas.  De  Maupassant 
on  all  fours  eating  his  excrements,  as  did  Voltaire; 
poor  Nietzsche,  a  victim  of  drugs  and  like  Stendhal 
slain  by  syphilis;  Baudelaire  wallowing  in  nastiness 
at  his  end;  Heine,  a  victim  to  sexual  over-indulgence, 
dying  from  tabes  dorsalis;  Huysmans,  punished  for  his 
early  blasphemies  and  his  self-confessed  degeneracies, 
dies  of  cancer  in  the  throat;  Ibsen  gone  mad,  and  the 
religious  degenerate,  Tolstoy,  too;  Oscar  Wilde 


PAINTED  VEILS  201 

"What  a  preacher  you  will  make,  Milt,"  enthusiasti 
cally  exclaimed  Ulick.  "But  while  you  are  dragging  in 
those  awful  examples,  why  not  adduce  the  names  of 
abnormally  normal  genius :  Plato,  Shakespeare,  Michel 
angelo,  Montaigne,  Napoleon,  Beethoven,  Thackeray 
and  their  specific  maladies  mental  and  moral  .  .  . 
Milt  shook  his  head.  "I'm  only  thinking  of  you,  Ulick." 
"Thanks  for  the  compliment.  Nice  company  you  put 
me  in.  No  wonder  you  recommend  a  course  of  con 
jugal  calisthenics  .  .  .  He  laughed  aloud.  "No 
joke,  my  boy.  You  don't  drink  or  smoke.  Good.  But 
you  are  living  in  a  bog  of  slimy  voluptuousness.  As 
Odo  of  Cluny  has  written  of  man's  connection  with 
woman:  'Quomodo  ipsum  stercoris  saccum  amplecti 
desideramus,'  and  for  this  'sack  of  dung' — don't 
wince,  those  monks  had  the  unpleasant  habit  of  calling 
things  by  their  right  names — for  this  vain,  skin-deep 
beauty,  harboring  all  manners  of  impurities,  you  are 
risking  your  hopes  of  heaven"!  "How  unfair  you 
fanatics  are!  Why  throw  muck  at  the  very  source  of 
life !  We  are  conceived  in  corruption,  in  sin,  according 
to  the  Church.  But  how  could  the  Church  get  souls 
were  it  not  for  this  same  fornication,  despised  and 
berated?  Don't  speak  of  sanctification  by  the  sacra 
ments.  Fornication  is  fornication,  and  were  it  not 
for  the  'sin'  we  wouldn't  be  sitting  here.  That's  what  I 
can't  understand;  the  divorce  of  theory  and  practice. 
Don't  start  in  Milt,  let  me  finish  first.  Havelock  Ellis 
writes :  'When  we  find  it  assumed  that  there  are  things 


202  PAINTED  VEILS 

good  to  do  and  not  good  to  justify  we  may  strongly 
suspect  that  we  have  come  across  a  mental  muddle.' 
And  that's  gospel  truth.  Hypocrisy  rules  the  world. 
In  fact,  life  without  hypocrisy  is  unthinkable.  They 
are  inseparable.  My  friend  Jules  de  Gaultier's  philoso 
phy  is  sound.  Bovarysme,  or  the  desire  of  man  to  ap 
pear  other  than  he  is.  The  eternal  illusion.  The 
divine  humbuggery."  "Hypocrisy  is,  as  you  say, 
necessary  to  screen  certain  unpleasant  realities,  Ulick. 
It  is  a  pia  fraus;  painted  veils!  painted  lies.  People 
who  will  persist  in  crudely  naming  unmentionable 
matters  usually  end  in  jail  or  in  the  lunatic  asylum. 
Back  to  'our  mutton'.  Why  don't  you  marry?  Believe 
me,  the  humdrum  life  of  a  bourgeois  will  give  you  the 
proper  atmosphere  for  your  studies.  Think  of  your 
Flaubert  and  his  labourious  life,  with  its  colourless  back 
ground.  He  urged  the  young  writer  to  be  ascetic  in  his 
life,  that  he  could  be  all  the  more  violent  in  his  art. 
Vance  Thompson's  advice  is  sound:  Artists  should 
marry  women  with  the  feather-bed  temperament. 
Why  are  you  looking  like  that  at  me,  Ulick?"  Ulick 
only  smiled,  but  there  was  a  covert  sneer  in  the  smile 
that  caused  Milt  to  blush. 

"Honestly,  entre-nous,  Milt,  you  know  more  than  a 
specialist  in  psychopathy.  Now  tell  me,  I'll  keep  it 
secret,  how  do  you  contrive  to  stay  clear  of  the  petti 
coats?  It's  a  personal  question,  but  I  dare  put  it 
because  you  are  so  frank  with  me  as  to  my  own  soul- 
hygiene.  You  are  such  an  old  soul-sniffer !"  Milt  didn't 


PAINTED  VEILS  203 

hesitate.  "I  pray.  Prayer,  naught  else.  Lead  us  not 
into  temptation.  Et  ne  nos  inducas  in  tentationem. 
All  the  talk  of  psychologists  about  transposing  the 
nervous  fluid  to  the  brain  would  be  mere  wind,  were 
it  not  for  prayer.  Faith  moves  mountains.  Volition  is 
born  of  humility  and  prayer.  That's  my  secret,  and 
it's  the  secret  of  every  priest.  But  just  to  show  you, 
Ulick,  that  we  do  not  necessarily  violate  the  laws  of 
nature,  let  me  quote  two  phrases  which  I  copied  in  my 
note  book  concerning  sex.  In  his  'L'Egoisme,  base  de 
toute  Societe'  Felix  Le  Dantec  makes  rather  astonishing 
statements,  and  what's  more,  proves  their  validity. 
The  first  is  this :  Tacte  sexual  n'est  pas  un  phenomene 
vital,'  in  a  word,  this  act  so  often  sung  of  by  the  poets, 
this  act  which  assures  the  continuity  of  life,  is  a  drama 
in  which  the  living  are  not  the  chief  actors;  the  sper- 
matazoa  and  the  ova  are.  The  second  proposition  is: 
'Les  elements  sexuels  sont  morts.'  Neither  one  can  live 
by  itself.  Nature,  prompted  by  the  divine  design 
brings  them  together  in  the  inexpressible  act,  an  act 
that  even  the  lowest  of  humans  always  seeks  the  dark 
ness  to  consummate.  Which  is  a  salutary  hypocrisy." 
Ulick  calmly  took  a  book  down  and  remarked:  "Here 
is  Le  Dantec  himself.  But  you  don't  quote  what  he 
says  of  the  'gamete'  the  unfecundated  sexual  cells, 
poisoning  a  man  swifter  than  does  absinthe.  In  a  word, 
Milt,  the  sexes  separated  are  unnatural,  and  joined, 
whether  in  wedlock  or  concubinage — bedlock  is 
the  ultimate  outcome — they  are  natural,  healthy. 


204  PAINTED  VEILS 

Waldstein,  Ekler  and  other  biologists  have  proved  that 
the  sperma  of  the  male  actually  enters  into  the  veinal 
circulation  of  the  woman.  'Bone  of  my  bone'!  You, 
because  you  lead  a  so-called  pure  life,  are  continually 
haunted  by  impure  images." 

Milt  demurred,  then  said  rather  maliciously:  "Ulick, 
who  is  this  Dora  that  you  and  Paul  Godard  share  so 
happily?  Modern  polyandry"?  "Who  told  you  about 
her"  ?  rudely  demanded  Ulick,  visibly  annoyed.  "Little 
birds  fly  up  the  state  even  to  our  college.  Alfred,  if  it 
will  relieve  you  to  know,  was  my  informant."  "I 
thought  so,"  muttered  Ulick.  "Another  busybody.  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  that  the  psychology  of  Dora  is 
as  simple  as  a  single-cell  structure.  She  is  of  the  genus 
prostitute,  a  superior  prostitute.  As  false  as  your  Hell, 
and  as  pretty  as  a  June  rose.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  meet 
her,  Milt?"  "Don't  talk  rot,  lad.  Now  there  is  another 
person  I  should  like  to  speak  of — Miss  Brandes.  What 
about  her?  Are  you  still  smitten?"  Ulick  shook  his 
head.  "Where  did  you  get  that  notion?  Alfred,  I 
suppose.  Guess  again.  Isn't  the  old  Adam  stirring 
in  you,  Milt?  Easter  is  a  very  seductive  girl."  This 
time  Ulick  scored  a  bull's  eye.  His  bolt  made  a  pal 
pable  hit.  From  crimson  Milt  turned  ghastly  white. 
Irritably  he  took  up  his  hat,  strode  to  the  door,  but 
halted,  controlled  himself,  and  returned  to  Ulick. 
Putting  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  peering  into  the 
young's  man's  eyes,  he  said,  and  in  affectionate  tones: 


PAINTED  VEILS  205 

"Don't  worry  about  my  condition,  Ulick.  God,  I 
pray,  will  give  me  strength  to  fight  carnal  temptation. 
Those  subtle  sophists,  your  daily  intellectual  pabulum, 
deny  the  potency  of  prayer,  yet  it  is  one  of  the  cer 
titudes  of  our  otherwise  miserable  existence.  Once  you 
cast  on  the  vast  current  of  prayer  your  harassed  soul 
you  are  at  peace  with  man  and  God.  No  adversity  can 
pierce  the  cuirass  of  your  soul.  But  Ulick — my  dear 
Ulick  Invern,  I  can't  leave  you  without  speaking  to  you 
of  something  that  is  very  dear  and  near  to  me  ..." 
(He  knows  all,  thought  Ulick,  tightly  holding  the  back 
of  a  chair)  "and  that  is  my  sister  Mona.  Are  you  be 
having  honourably  towards  her,  Ulick?  If  not,  if  you 
are  indulging  in  one  of  your  numerous  masculine 
caprices,  for  God's  sake  remember  that  she  is  my  sister, 
the  only  daughter  of  her  mother  and  father,  who  adore 
the  girl.  She  is  read  in  the  'modernity'  you  admire,  too 
deeply  for  her  spiritual  repose.  She  is  a  sceptic.  I  am  a 
convert.  My  parents  are  easy-going,  though  my  mother 
is  naturally  pious.  But  their  religion  is  invertebrate. 
Without  dogma  a  religion  is  like  a  body  without  skele 
ton.  It  can't  stand.  It  won't  endure.  So  Mona  leads 
too  free  a  life.  Now,  Ulick,  I  conjure  you  by  your 
friendship,  don't  poison  that  girl's  mind,  don't  tempt 
her  young  heart."  Milt's  manner  was  cordial,  even 
tender.  He  loved  his  friend,  but  he  loved  his  sister 
more  than  a  thousand  friends.  Ulick  was  moved. 
"I  swear  Milt.  I  am  afraid  I  already  care  too  much. 
I'd  better  go  back  to  Paris,  after  all."  Milt  took  his 


206  PAINTED  VEILS 

hand.  "If  you  love  Mona,  why  not  tell  her  so?  She 
has  a  beautiful  soul.  Don't  torture  her  any  longer. 
She  is  very  unhappy  just  now.  Write  her  frankly,  con 
fessing  your  faults.  She  knows.  She  will  forgive,  I'm 
sure." 

"She  knows,"  too,  cried  Ulick.  "Who  told  her? 
Alfred  again?  I  think  Master  Alfred  is  riding  for  a  fall, 
as  far  as  I'm  concerned  .  .  .  he  is  due  for  a  good 
hiding."  "Now,  don't  judge  too  hastily,  Ulick.  Re 
member  that  Alfred  has  been  a  close  friend  of  my 
family  for  years.  Naturally  he  is  interested  in  Mona, 
and  doesn't  wish  harm  to  come  to  her."  "That's  why 
Mona  went  away  without  telling  me,  without  saying 
good-bye,  without  writing,"  pondered  Ulick.  "That's 
why,"  answered  the  brother,  guessing  the  reason  of  his 
embarrassment.  "Write  Mona,  Ulick.  Play  fairly 
with  her.  I  can't  speak  plainer.  Give  up  your  loose 
living.  You  are  intended  for  better  things.  You  are 
gifted,  independent,  young,  above  all,  young.  I  don't 
advise  marriage — not  immediately.  But  don't  let 
happiness  slip  through  your  fingers.  It  may  offer  itself  but 
once,  and  you  are  very  careless.  A  woman's  heart  con 
tains  treasures  of  affection.  Don't  waste  them;  cyni 
cism  is  worse  than  corrosive-sublimate.  It  poisons, 
kills  your  higher  brain-centres.  Pardon  my  brotherly 
solicitude,  Ulick.  I'm  a  bore,  but  right  is  sometimes  on 
the  side  of  the  stupid,  and  victory  doesn't  always 
perch  on  the  banners  of  the  intellectually  elect.  Write 
Mona,  Ulick,  and  may  God  bless  you."  He  was  gone, 


PAINTED  VEILS  207 

his  kind  face  happy  with  the  idea  of  having  accom 
plished  good,  before  Ulick  could  gather  his  wits.  The 
ending  of  this  afternoon  seance  had  been  a  great  shock 
to  the  young  man.  Nor  had  his  not  particularly  sensi 
tive  conscience  escaped  troubling.  He  was  a  Roman 
Catholic.  He  was  what  the  world  has  agreed  to  call  a 
gentleman;  the  inward  monitor,  out  of  those  multiple 
egos,  reproved  him  for  his  manner  of  living,  for  his 
behaviour  to  that  sweet,  if  not  precisely,  innocent,  young 
woman.  A  virgin?  Yes.  How  long  would  she  remain 
one  in  his  corrupting  company?  This  question  he 
quickly  buried.  What  a  lot  of  psychologic  palaver  over 
a  girl,  he  mused.  Perhaps  Milt  wished  to  marry  his 
sister  to  a  good  parti.  Dismissing  this  mean  suggestion, 
he  posed  the  naked  question:  "Shall  or  shan't  I  write 
to  Mona?  And  if  I  do  write,  where  shall  I  send  the 
letter?  And  what  shall  I  say  to  her?  Go  to  con 
fession,  get  down  on  my  marrow-bones  and  say  'mea 
culpa'?  No,  decided  Ulick,  as  he  sat  down  to  his  desk, 
I'll  send  her  a  fairy-tale  instead  of  a  history  of  my 
wicked  life."  Ulick  took  up  his  pen  and  began  to  write. 


IV 

From  her  attic  of  dreams,  from  her  Tower  of  Ebony 
and  spleen,  Mona  Milton  in  one  of  her  rare  morose 
moments,  saw  unrolled  beneath  her  a  double  line  of 
light.  Tall  poles,  bearing  twy-electric  lamps,  either 
side  of  the  nocturnal  Avenue,  and  casting  patches  of 


208  PAINTED  VEILS 

metalic  blue  upon  the  glistening  pave — veritable- 
fragments  of  shivering  luminosity;  saw  the  intermin 
able  stretch  of  humid  asphalt,  stippled  by  notes  of  dull 
crimson,  the  exigent  lanterns  of  citizen-contractors. 
Occasional  trolley-cars,  projecting  vivid  shafts  of 
canary  color  into  the  mist,  traversed  with  vertiginous 
speed  and  hollow  thunder  the  dreary  roadway.  It  was 
midnight.  On  both  sides  of  the  street  were  buttresses 
of  granite;  at  unrhythmic  intervals  gloomy  apartment 
houses  reared  to  the  clouds  their  oblong  ugliness  mag 
netically  attracting  the  vagrom  winds  which  tease, 
agitate  and  buffet  unfortunate  people  afoot  in  this 
melancholy  canyon  of  marble,  steel  and  speed.  A 
belated  bug-like  motor-car,  its  antennae  vibrating 
with  fire  tremulously  slipped  through  the  casual  pools 
of  shadowed  cross-lights;  swam  and  hummed  so  softly 
that  it  might  have  been  taken  for  a  timorous  amphibian, 
a  monster  neither  boat  nor  machine.  To  the  faded 
nerves  of  Mona,  aloft  in  her  cage,  this  undulat 
ing  blur  of  blue  and  grey  and  frosty  white,  these 
ebon  silhouettes  of  hushed  brassy  palaces,  and 
the  shimmering  wet  night,  did  but  evoke  the  exasper 
ating  tableau  of  a  petrified  Venice.  A  Venice  overtaken 
by  a  drought  eternal.  Venice  serial,  with  cliff-dwellers 
in  lieu  of  harmonious  gondolas;  a  Venice  of  tarnished 
twilights,  in  which  canals  were  transposed  to  the  key 
of  stone;  across  which  trailed  and  dripped  superficial 
rain  from  dusk  and  implacable  skies;  rain,  upright  and 
scowling.  And  the  soul  of  the  poetic  Mona  posed 


PAINTED  VEILS  209 

ironically  its  acid  pessimism  in  the  presence  of  this 
salty,  chill  and  cruel  city;  a  Venice  of  receded  seas,  a 
spun-steel  Venice,  sans  hope,  sans  faith,  sans  vision. 

Mona  held  in  her  hand  a  book  of  musical  sketches  by 
an  author  unknown  to  her.  It  was  entitled  Melo- 
maniacs.  It  had  been  given  to  her  by  Ulick  Invern. 
But  her  attention  had  strayed  from  its  pages  to  the 
spectacle  of  the  night.  She  was  not  happy.  Nor  was 
she  unhappy.  A  sense  of  emptiness  oppressed  her,  the 
futility  of  matters  mundane,  love  included,  oppressed 
her  consciousness.  If  she  could  but  pin  her  faith  to 
something  tangible,  concrete,  make  a  definite  act  of 
affirmation  before  the  veil  of  life,  behind  which  was 
hidden  the  accomplices  of  her  destiny.  Know  thyself! 
is  wisdom,  but  if  you  are  sick  unto  death  with  yourself 
and  its  petty,  insistent  claims  upon  your  volitions,  then 
forget  thyself!  might  be  a  sounder  motto.  Mona  had 
not  the  temperament  dynamic;  nor  yet  was  she  lympha 
tic.  In  the  company  of  Ulick  she  had  let  herself  go, 
as  will  some  women  in  the  more  masterful  grip  of  the 
male,  without  relinquishing  the  captaincy  of  her  inner 
citadel.  And  now  she  had  mentally  dismissed  her  lover, 
realizing  in  a  sudden  illumination  that  his  instability, 
as  unstable  as  an  anchor  that  drags,  would  be  a  bar  to 
their  happiness.  She  had  tartly  contradicted  Alfred 
when  he  laboriously  hauled  out,  as  if  from  a  secret 
place,  the  chief  defects  in  Ulick's  character.  Yet, 
she  recognized  the  justice  of  the  impeachment.  Ulick 
was  too  fond  of  his  pleasures,  and  girls  were  no  doubt 


210  PAINTED  VEILS 

the  stencil  of  his  cardinal  sin.  Impotent  to  change  his 
volatile  nature — volatile,  at  least,  where  women  were 
concerned — she  had  resolved  on  hearing  of  the  Dora 
episode  to  break  their  friendship.  She  felt  the  wrench, 
especially  this  evening.  She  had  returned  from  the 
seashore  promising  herself  that  she  would  be  strong. 
Instead,  she  felt  uneasy,  full  of  barren  desire,  giddi 
ness  in  her  head  and  a  sort  of  green-sickness  in  her 
stomach.  She  recognized  the  symptoms,  as  would  any 
full-blooded  girl  of  normal  instincts;  she  also  recognized 
the  necessity  of  suppressing  certain  emotions.  So  she 
resumed  reading  The  Rim  of  Finer  Issues.  She 
didn't  like  it  as  far  as  she  had  gone.  The  writer,  evi 
dently  unformed,  floundered  between  Henry  James 
and  the  new  French  symbolists;  psychological  analysis 
was  intermingled  with  symbolical  prose,  the  admixture 
proving  rather  confusing  to  her  tormented  spirit.  She 
longed  for  clarity.  Still  she  continued  to  read  in  a 
cursory  manner  .  .  .  Then  her  attention  was 
caught  by  a  subtitle:  Frustrate.  No  doubt  the 
prose-poem  threatened  by  the  heroine  with  the  iron- 
colored  eyes,  or  was  it  rust-colored  hair?  She  read  on 
and  with  increasing  interest  this  rhapsody  of  the  sex- 
cells. 

"O  the  misty  plaint  of  the  Unconceived !  O  crystal 
incuriousness  of  the  monad!  The  faint  swarming 
toward  the  light  and  the  rending  of  the  sphere  of  hope, 
frustrate,  inutile.  I  am  the  seed  called  Life.  I  am  he, 
I  am  she.  We  walk,  swim,  totter  and  blend.  Through- 


PAINTED  VEILS  211 

out  the  ages  I  dwelt  in  the  vast  basin  of  time.  I  am 
called  by  Fate  into  the  Now.  On  pulsing  terraces, 
under  a  noon  blood-red,  I  dreamed  of  the  mighty  con 
fluence.  About  me  were  my  kinsfolk.  Full  of  dumb 
pain  we  pleasured  our  centuries  with  anticipation;  we 
watched  as  we  gamed  away  the  hours.  From  Asiatic 
plateaux  we  swept  to  Nilotic  slime.  We  roamed  primeval 
forests,  arboreally  sublime,  or  sported  with  the  Behe 
moth  as  we  listened  to  the  serpents'  sinuous  irony.  We 
chattered  with  the  sacred  apes  or  mouthed  at  the 
moon;  and  in  the  Long  Ago  wore  the  carapace  and 
danced  forthright  figures  on  coprolitic  sands;  sands 
stretching  into  the  bosom  of  earth,  sands  woven  of 
windy  reaches,  hemming  the  sun  .  .  .  We  lay  in 
Egyptian  granaries  with  the  grains  of  corn,  and  saw 
them  fructify  under  the  smile  of  the  sphinx;  we  buzzed 
in  the  ambient  atmosphere,  gaudy  dragon-flies,  or  as 
whirling  motes  in  full  cry  chased  by  humming-birds. 
Then  from  some  cold  crag  we  launched  with  wings  of 
firebreathing  pestilence  and  fell  fathoms  under  sea  to 
war  with  lizard-fish  and  narwhal,  for  us  the  supreme 
surrender,  the  joy  of  the  expected  .  .  .  With 
cynical  glance  we  saw  the  Buddha  give  way  to  Christ. 
Protoplasmically  we  noted  the  birth  of  planets  and  the 
confusion  of  creation.  We  saw  horned  monsters 
become  gentle  ruminants  and  heard  from  the  tree- 
tops  the  scream  of  the  pterodactyl  dwindle  to  child's 
laughter.  We  heard,  we  saw,  we  felt,  we  knew.  Yet 
we  hoped  on.  Every  monad  has  its  day  .  .  .  One 


212  PAINTED  VEILS 

by  one  the  inchoate  billions  disintegrated  as  they 
floated  into  formal  life.  And  we  watched  and  waited. 
Our  evolution  had  been  the  latest,  until  heartsick  with 
longing  many  of  my  brethren  wished  for  annihilation. 
.  .  .  Save  one  I  was  at  last  alone.  The  time  of  my 
fruition  was  not  far.  O  for  the  moment  when  I  should 
realize  my  dreams!  ...  I  saw  my  companion 
swept  away,  swept  down  to  the  vistas  of  life,  the  thun 
derous  surge  of  passion  singing  in  her  ears.  O  that  my 
time  would  come !  After  vague  alarms  I  was  summoned 
.  .  .  My  hour  had  struck.  Eternity  was  behind  me, 
eternity  loomed  ahead,  implacable,  furrowed  by  the 
scars  of  Time.  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  foreordained 
mate  in  the  Cosmos.  I  tarried  not  as  I  ran  the  race. 
Moments  were  priceless;  a  second  meant  aeons;  and 
then  leaping  into  the  light — Alas!  I  was  too  late 
.  .  .  Of  what  use  now  my  travail,  my  countless 
preparations?  O  Chance!  O  Fate!  I  am  become  one 
of  the  silent  multitude  of  the  Frustrate  .  .  ." 

That's  an  ambitious  attempt  to  compress  the  evolu 
tionary  processes  into  a  page,  she  reflected.  On  the 
shelf  devoted  to  her  beloved  Frenchmen  she  took  down 
A  Rebours  and  read  what  Huysmans  wrote  of  the 
poem  in  prose  of  Mallarme's  in  particular  .  .  .  "the 
adjective  placed  in  such  an  ingenious  and  definite  way 
that  it  .  .  .  would  open  up  such  perspectives 
that  the  reader  would  dream  whole  weeks  together  on  its 
meaning  at  once  precise  and  multiple,  affirm  the  present, 
reconstruct  the  past,  divine  the  future  of  the  charac- 


PAINTED  VEILS  213 

ters  revealed  by  the  light  of  the  unique  epithet  .  .  . 
a  spiritual  collaboration  by  consent  between  ten  su 
perior  persons  scattered  through  the  universe  .  .  ." 
"I  confess  I'm  not  one  of  the  ten,"  said  Mona  aloud, 
for  she  often  wedded  her  interior  dialogue  to  the  exter 
ior.  "I  should  die  of  mental  starvation  on  such  a  con 
densed  literary  diet;  it  may  be  poetic,  but  it  is  too 
pep  tonic,  and  my  soul  can't  be  fed  with  prose  pemmican. 
Yet  Frustrate  is  a  strange  panorama  of  sex  and 
evolution.  'Every  monad  has  its  day.'  True,  I  won 
der  if  this  orchestra  of  cells  that  I  call  'Moi'  will  ever 
have  its  day?  The  time  of  my  fruition  is  afar.  Who 
is  the  Siegfried  that  will  release  this  Brunnhilde  from 
her  bed  of  fire?  That's  a  question  which  every  girl  puts 
to  herself  in  a  thousand  different  forms.  I  should  like 
to  be  married.  I  love  children.  There  is  no  other 
adequate  method  to  lure  them  into  this  chilly  life  but 
the  mating  of  men  and  women.  Really,  Mona,  does  the 
man  matter  much?  Eugenics,  a  fine  word  for  an  im 
possible  thing!  I  like  Ulick.  He  wouldn't  make  me 
happy,  I  know.  But  what's  the  difference  if  I  can  hold 
his  baby  and  mine  to  my  breast?  Nothing  else  counts. 
I'm  in  a  nice  depressed  mood  tonight.  I  musn't  forget 
to  take  a  pill.  It's  usually  the  liver,  and  calomel  is  the 
last  resource  of  the  virtuously  bilious.  Oh!  dear,  I 
wonder  what  he  is  doing  now?  With  that  horrid 
woman?  Not  that  I  care.  Why  should  I?  Ulick  is 
nothing  to  me.  Young  men  must  observe  the  laws  of 
hygiene  or  else  be  ill,  so  he  says.  I  believe  him.  What 


214  PAINTED  VEILS 

about  women?  Are  they  so  differently  constructed? 
Saints?  I  don't  believe  it.  If  we  wrere  frank,  we 
should  tell  the  whole  truth — women  are  much  more 
amorous  than  men,  although  the  emotion  with  us  is 
more  massive,  yet  more  diffused.  There!  I've  told 
my  mirror  the  truth.  Polichinelle's  secret.  Because  of 
our  excessive  temperament  we  have  been  put  behind 
bars  for  ages.  Heavens!  Every  household  is  a  harem 
with  one  lawful  wife;  the  concubines  live  elsewhere. 
Some  day  women  will  go  on  a  sex-strike.  Then  the 
men  will  crawl.  If  it's  right  for  the  men  to  go  philan 
dering,  why  isn't  it  right  for  the  women?  I  wonder 
what  Milt  would  say  if  he  could  peep  into  my  brain  at 
this  moment?  Horrified  he  would  surely  be.  That 
Dora!  Alfred  Stone  says  she  is  very  pretty.  Pooh! 
I  know  what  his  'pretty'  means.  A  lascivious  kitten. 
But  she  serves  the  purpose.  I  don't  mind  the  physical 
facts;  men  have  strong  stomachs,  but  how  can  a 
superior  young  man  like  Ulick  stand  the  vulgarity,  the 
stupidity  of  such  a  girl!  Maybe  she  isn't  stupid  or 
vulgar.  That  singer,  Esther  Brandes  is  a  law  unto 
herself;  no  doubt  has  a  regular  flock  of  lovers  .  .  . 
artistic  women  are  privileged  ...  I  wish  I  was 
an  artistic  woman.  I've  never  had  a  real  affair.  If 
these  monads  of  mine  are  to  have  their  day  it's  high 
time  they  began.  Only  to  think  of  it,  I  was  once  spoony 
over  Alfred.  I  can't  endure  his  presence  now.  They 
say  we  always  return  to  our  first  loves.  What  non 
sense.  We  usually  turn  down  a  side  street  when  we  see 


PAINTED  VEILS  215 

an  old  beau  approaching.  I  know  I  do.  I  wonder 
whether  Ulick  really  was  in  earnest  about  our  dream- 
children?  Our  monads  must  have  been  mighty  lively 
when  we  held  hands  at  the  Casino  and  at  Martin's. 
What  were  their  names,  those  children?  Shamus, 
Tenth  Earl,  or  is  it  Marquis  of  Thingamajig  somewhere 

in  Ireland?     Shamus  and ?     Wasn't  there  a 

horse  or  a  mare  in  the  dream?  Yes,  yes,  I  have  it, 
Brunnhilde's  white  horse,  or  was  it  one  of  the  white 
horses  of  'Rosmersholm' ?  No,  it  wasn't  Ibsen  at  all, 
it  was  Wagner.  Grane!  Aha!  That's  it.  Grane  and 
Shamus.  What  darlings  they  must  be,  and  their 
mother  who  conceived  and  bore  them  never  saw  them 
except  in  her  dreams.  But  they  are  more  real  than 
flesh  and  blood  children.  Our  dream  children.  I'm 
beginning  to  think  I  love  Ulick  .  .  .  Oh!  he  is  a 
dear.  I'd  better  go  to  bed  or  I'll  end  a  lunatic.  When 
a  woman  ceases  to  be  mistress  of  herself  she  is  likely  to 
become  the  mistress  of  a  man.  Dreams.  Heigho! 
Now  for  my  bed  of  tormenting  fire  not  on  Brunn 
hilde's  fire-begirt  rock,  but  between  my  sheets.  But 
the  fire  is  there  just  the  same  .  .  .  the  fire  .  .  . 
the  lovely,  teasing  fire  that  brings  dreams  .  .  . 
and  Ulick  .  .  .  and  our  dream-children,  Shamus 
and  Grane  Shamus 


Mentally  refreshed  after  her  monologue  and  physi 
cally  buoyant  because  of  a  dreamless  night  Mona  ate  a 


216  PAINTED  VEILS 

hearty  breakfast.  No  lilies  and  languour  for  her  in  the 
golden  morning  hours.  She  read  a  newspaper.  Her 
appetite  for  the  realities  we  call  "life"  was  fresh;  in  the 
evening  she  couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  printed  news. 
The  post  brought  her  two  letters.  One  told  her  that 
her  subscription  to  a  musical  publication  had  expired; 
a  glance  at  the  superscription  of  the  other  sent  her 
scurrying  upstairs  to  her  Ebony  Tower,  as  she  fantasti 
cally  named  her  study.  It  was  from  him,  the  father  of 
her  dream-children,  the  one  man  in  the  world  for  her. 
As  if  dazzled  by  an  unexpected  flash  of  lightning  she  saw 
the  truth;  she  loved  TJlick  In vern.  She  must  make  him 
her  husband, — or?  .  .  .  She  read  his  letter.  It 
began  thus: 

"Grane  and  Shamus  stood  near  the  big  tree  in  the 
cool  park  listening  to  the  song  of  the  leaves.  This  tree 
had  been  nice  to  them,  no  branches  had  harshly  croaked: 
'Go  away.  I  hate  little  boys  and  girls.'  This  tree  they 
heard  saying  nice  things  about  them  to  the  cross, 
crooked  crab-apple  tree  next  to  it  .  .  .  They  loved 
the  singing  trees.  They  loved  to  be  under  the  'few 
large  stars',  their  faces  buffeted  by  sudden  little  winds 
from  the  lazy  white  clouds  in  the  sky.  They  were  not 
keeping  faith  with  their  mamma.  They  had  promised 
to  be  home  before  dusk  and  yet  they  lingered  in  the 
twilight  park  as  if  they  were  birds  that  perched  and 
slept  in  the  hollow  night.  Their  mother  longed  for 
them  and  sent  Nursie  to  fetch  them  home.  But  the 
voices  of  the  leaves  held  them  captive;  they  overheard 


PAINTED  VEILS  217 

the  strange  secrets  and  sorrows  of  the  trees.  'O,  if  only 
we  could  run  about  like  those  queer  human  children! 
Moving  plants.  If  only  our  branches,  which  are  our 
arms,  could  become  free  and  fly  through  the  air  instead 
of  cowardly  waving  to  the  prompting  of  every  vagrant 
breeze.  Alas!  we  are  rooted  in  the  soil.  What  crime 
did  our  arboreal  ancestors  commit  that  we  must  so 
suffer  and  atone  for  it?  In  what  faraway  forest  is 
buried  the  sinister  evidence  of  the  trees  fall  from  grace?' 
Shamus  nudged  Grane.  'Do  you  hear  what  the  trees 
are  telling  us?'  'Of  course  I  do,  Shamus,'  pertly 
answered  Grane,  'but  I  don't  understand  them  any 
more  than  you  do.'  'Grane,  I'm  afraid,  let's  go  back 
to  the  house.'  'Cry-baby'  retorted  his  sister,  'I'm  not 
a  bit  afraid.'  They  lingered  on.  The  trees  still 
babbled.  Then  the  clear  voice  of  Nursie  reached  their 
ears.  'Grane!  Shamus!  Your  mamma  wants  you  to 
come  in  right  away.  Papa  is  asking  for  you.'  Hand 
in  hand  they  traversed  the  field;  it  didn't  seem  so  big 
now.  They  saw  a  sickle  of  silver  fire  floating  over  the 
tree  tops.  It  was  the  new  moon.  Elated,  they  both 
wished  that  their  mamma  would  reveal  the  secret  of 
the  trees.  She  gently  smiled  at  their  insistent  question 
ing.  'The  trees,'  she  explained,  'were  naughty  once 
upon  a  time  in  the  long-ago.  They  disobeyed  their 
parents  and  left  their  cabin  in  the  woods.  Soon  they 
were  lost  and  begged  to  be  shown  the  way  back  in  the 
black  darkness.  Alarmed  by  their  lamentings,  the 
moon  appeared  and  pointed  the  path  of  light  to  their 


218  PAINTED  VEILS 

house.  They  promised  never  to  leave  their  roots  any 
more.'  She  looked  at  Grane  and  Shamus,  and  at  their 
papa.  He  bowed  his  head.  He,  too,  had  wandered  in 
the  dark  forest  and  had  been  lost  like  the  little  trees. 
Then  the  mama  took  her  darlings  to  her  bosom  and 
over  their  tiny  golden  heads  she  smiled — a  smile  of 
tender  pity  and  forgiveness." 

Her  eyes  swimming  with  unshed  tears  Mona  threw 
herself  on  the  bed  her  burning  cheeks  buried  in  a 
pillow.  This  whimsical  letter  profoundly  moved  her. 
Every  fibre  of  longing,  of  sweet  desires,  of  craving 
motherhood  tugged  at  her  heart,  knocked  at  the  door 
of  her  soul  and  unbidden  entered  and  took  possession 
.  .  .  Milt  would  have  told  her  that  seven  evil  ones 
possessed  her;  but  she  knew  better.  She  was,  at  last, 
a  woman,  with  a  woman's  complex  passion,  and  also 
a  woman's  stern  purpose.  Every  monad  has  its  day, 
she  sobbed,  but  remained  dry-eyed.  I  mean  to  have 
mine.  Now  or  never  ...  It  was  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  when  Mona  passed  her  mother  in  the 
doorway.  "Where  in  the  world  are  you  off  to  so  late, 
Mona?  It's  surely  going  to  rain  and  you  haven't  your 
umbrella.  Dear,  dear,  what  a  forgetful  girl  you  are." 
"I'm  only  going  across  the  park,  mamma,  and  if  it 
threatens,  I'll  run  home,"  she  explained;  but  her 
mother  shook  her  head.  "You  will  get  wet,  and  then 
it  will  be  too  late  to  return."  Mona  went  her  way  but 
said  naught  of  her  secret  errand. 


PAINTED  VEILS  219 

VI 

Ulick  was  reading  Le  Jardin  de  Berenice  in  his 
music-room.  He  had  not  enjoyed  his  luncheon,  and 
fearing  sleep,  for  he  detested  afternoon  naps,  he  took 
refuge  in  the  pages  of  the  subtle  Barres.  It  was  begin 
ning  to  darken,  though  it  couldn't  have  been  more 
than  four  o'clock,  but  rain  had  set  in  and  he  was  about 
to  turn  on  the  lights  when  he  heard  taps  on  his  glass 
door;  this  tapping  was  immediately  followed  by  the 
entrance  of  Mona,  veiled,  and  mysterious.  He  couldn't 
refrain  from  frowning,  and  then  he  hoped  she  hadn't 
noticed  his  dissatisfaction.  She  went  to  him  and  kissed 
him.  Ulick,  surprised,  kept  his  head.  "You  darling 
Mona,  and  I  had  never  expected  to  see  you  again." 
And  with  that  he  grasped  her  and  the  lovers  embraced. 
Mona  made  no  pretence  of  coyness.  She  hugged 
Ulick  as  if  for  the  last  time.  Tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  He  was  greatly  touched,  also  alarmed  by  her 
fervour.  But  he  asked  no  explanation  of  her  conduct 
in  running  away  from  him;  she  vouchsafed  none. 
They  were  happy  to  be  together.  What  the  use  of 
words!  He  finally  begged  of  her,  seeing  that  she  was 
pale  from  emotion,  to  remove  her  hat  and  wraps,  and 
he  made  her  sit  on  the  couch  close  to  him.  After  a 
pause,  she  said : 

"Ulick,  our  children,  our  dream-children,  they  are 
born  at  last,  and  they  are  loved  by  their  parents,  are 
they  not?"  He  smiled,  though  he  felt  uncomfortable 
at  this  putting  of  the  horses  behind  the  cart;  in  fact, 


220  PAINTED  VEILS 

his  conscience  was  beginning  to  toll  warning  bells.  He 
had  solemnly  promised  Milt,  had  he  not,  and  in  this 
very  room,  that  he  would  respect  his  sister!  And  here 
she  was,  that  adorable  sister,  in  his  arms,  only  a  few 
days  after  the  interview  with  her  brother.  Ulick 
resolved  on  stern  conduct.  He  gently  drew  away  from 
Mona  and  looked  at  her  as  steadily  as  his  beating 
arteries  would  permit  him.  She  sat  up  and  asked: 
"Ulick,  you  have  something  on  your  mind.  What  is 
it,  dearie?"  He  winced.  The  same  depressing  word 
that  Dora  always  used.  He  loathed  it.  It  was  so 
commonplace;  worse,  it  had  such  a  "professional"  ring. 
Hearing  it  now  gave  him  a  mental  excuse  for  reaction. 
He  rose,  pressed  a  button,  and  the  apartment  became 
cruelly  illuminated.  Mona  blinked,  shaded  her  eyes 
with  her  veil.  She  didn't  like  such  a  glare,  she  told  him, 
She  was  irritated.  Her  current  had  been  turned  off. 
that  electric  current  of  the  sexes.  Ulick  sat  down  before 
his  study  table.  He  was  already  bored;  she  recognized 
the  symptoms.  He  drummed  with  his  ringers,  his 
glance  went  over  her  head.  Evidently  he  wished  her 
away.  She  regretted  the  generous  elan  that  had  pro 
pelled  her  into  his  arms.  But  she  didn't  stir  from  the 
couch.  Another  pause,  long,  distressing  to  both. 
Ulick  yawned.  This  was  the  culminating  insult.  Her 
pride  pricked,  she  sat  rigid  as  a  candle  and  regarded 
the  man  she  loved,  the  man  who  fathered  her  dream- 
children.  Then,  "Ulick,"  she  whispered,  "Ulick,  my 
love,  come  to  me.  Don't  let  silly  reasons  keep  us  apart 


PAINTED  VEILS  221 

any  longer.  Ulick,  I  say,  come  at  once  to  your  mamma, 
your  little  mamma.  Oh!  Ulick  don't  forget  Grane 
and  Shamus."  She  stamped  her  foot.  She  was  grow 
ing  excited,  and  Ulick  wished  himself  a  thousand  miles 
away.  He  knew  where  this  would  lead.  He  didn't 
trust  his  nerves,  which  always  played  him  false  with 
women.  He  knew  that  his  promises  to  Milt  were  as 
naught  if  this  enchanting  girl  opened  her  arms.  And 
now  she  was  opening  those  seductive  arms.  He  felt 
lost.  He  didn't  think  of  the  future,  of  marriage;  the 
vivid  moment  overwhelmed  him,  swept  him  down  to 
disaster,  a  disaster  that  would  be  shared —  Oh!  how 
bitterly  shared —  by  this  imprudent  girl.  Imprudent? 
Better  say,  crazy  girl. 

He  paced  the  floor.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  vanish 
altogether  rather  than  fall  into  the  burning  pit.  Milt's 
phrases  came  to  his  memory.  Suddenly  he  resolved  on 
a  plan  of  action.  He  turned  to  her.  "Mona,"  he  said, 
"it's  getting  late.  It's  raining.  Hadn't  we  better  be 
going?"  She  didn't  budge.  He  felt  ashamed  at  the 
crudity  of  his  speech.  He  had  ardently  longed  for  this 
meeting,  and  now  he  was  acting  like  a  cowardly  eunuch. 
Mona  grasped  his  hand  as  he  irresolutely  stood  before 
her.  "Ulick,  don't  let  us  waste  our  happiness.  Jewel, 
love,  I'm  here.  I  came  to  you.  I  am  the  suitor.  Take 
me,  Jewel,  take  me.  Tomorrow  it  may  be  too  late." 
The  rising  storm  was  ominously  hysterical.  She  was 
become  uncontrollable.  She  tried  to  drag  him  down  to 


222  PAINTED  VEILS 

her.  He  resisted  her  tumultuous  onset  blushing  like  a 
virgin.  Obstinately  she  tugged  at  his  arm,  sitting  all 
the  while.  For  an  instant  "nymphomaniac"  flashed 
across  his  consciousness.  He  dragged  his  arm  from  her 
grasp. 

"The  open  door,  the  open  door  to  freedom,  Jewel," 
she  gasped,  and  arising  she  seized  him  with  such  pas 
sion  that  he  was  panic-stricken.  He  ran  into  his  bed 
room  bolting  the  door.  Mona,  now  quite  beside  her 
self  reached  the  switchboard  and  the  room  was  dark 
ened.  She  went  to  the  closed  door  and  began  beating 
upon  its  panels  with  her  fists. 

"The  open  door,  Ulick,  the  open  door !"  she  cried  and 
her  voice  had  the  accents  of  a  delirious  woman.  "Oh, 

please,  for  God's  sake  open  the  door,  Jewel "It's 

surely  maternal  nymphomania,"  he  muttered  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door.  "What  shall  I  do?  If  she  keeps 
on  shrieking  she  will  alarm  the  house — perhaps  the 
police — horrible ! — an  ambulance —  the  police-station — 
the  scandal — her  parents — Milt — my  God!  what  shall 
I  do? "  The  pounding  redoubled.  She  moaned. 

"Make  me  a  woman,  Jewel,  make  me  a  woman! 
Open  the  door,  make  me  a  woman!"  Perspiration 
almost  blinded  him.  Make  her  a  woman!  .  .  . 
She  was  the  stronger  ...  as  strong  as  death  .  .  . 

The  door  slowly  opened.  Mona  fell  into  his  arms, 
still  sobbing:  "Make  me  a  woman,  Jewel,  make  me  a 
woman"  . 


PAINTED  VEILS  223 

Mona  on  reaching  her  home  didn't  go  into  the  dining- 
room;  instead  she  rang  for  her  maid  and  bade  her  bring 
tea  and  toast  to  the  studio;  she  had  a  headache,  and 
please  let  her  mother  and  father  know  that  she  wouldn't 
come  down  to  dinner.  Then  she  went  to  her  mirror 
and  carefully  searched  as  if  she  were  seeking  some 
thing.  Her  features  were  not  discomposed,  her  expres 
sion  as  usual;  perhaps  she  was  a  trifle  paler  than  her 
wont,  otherwise — rien!  Yes,  her  eyes  seemed  as  if 
they  had  been  well-washed,  as  if  a  beneficent  rain  had 
carried  away  all  the  signs  of  discontent,  rebellion, 
unhappiness.  Mona  tried  to  imagine  herself  supremely 
happy.  She  wasn't.  Then  impatiently  snapping  her 
fingers  she  looked  at  her  doll  on  the  bed:  "It's  fright 
fully  over-advertised,  Dolly,  that's  what  love  is." 
Dolly  only  stared,  sphinx-wise. 


VII 

One  evening  Ulick  leaned  over  Dora's  balcony.  He 
had  called  unannounced,  and  found  her  in  anything  but 
an  amiable  mood.  "It's  you,  is  it?"  was  her  reception. 
He  had  not  been  very  attentive  of  late,  and  Dora, 
despite  her  kittenish  airs,  was  strictly  business  in  her 
methods.  With  her,  one  nail  replaced  another.  The 
devil  take  the  hindmost.  If  you  haven't  any  money, 
you  needn't  come  around.  Time  is  money.  What  are 
you  here  for?  When  you're  dead,  you're  dead  a  long 
time.  She  was  fond  of  repeating  this  chaplet  of  pearly 


224  PAINTED  VEILS 

wisdom  as  she  faced  her  favourite  work  of  art,  framed 
and  hung  on  the  alcove  of  her  bedchamber:  "Rock  of 
Ages  cleft  for  me"  was  the  legend  this  lovely  picture 
bore.  Dora,  who  wasn't  particularly  imaginative,  saw 
herself  as  the  attudinizing  female  who  so  closely  clung  to 
the  cross  in  a  typhoon  that  would  have  sunk  a  fleet,  but 
didn't  disturb  her  chaste  draperies.  She  impressed 
Dora.  A  vague  notion  nestled  in  the  recesses  of  her 
conscience  that  she  wasn't  precisely  leading  a  noble 
life,  and  that  the  necessary  rock  of  ages  for  her  was  a 
comfortable  bank  account. 

He  was  not  disturbed  by  her  cool  phrase.  It  wasn't 
a  novelty.  He  stared  at  the  town  and  thought  that 
when  the  softer  and  richer  symphony  of  the  night 
arrives,  when  the  jarring  of  one's  ego  by  the  innumer 
able  racking  noises  has  ceased,  when  the  city  is  pre 
paring  to  forget  the  toilsome  day,  then  the  magic  of 
New  York  begins  to  operate;  its  missing  soul  peeps 
forth  in  the  nocturnal  transfiguration.  However,  not 
on  Broadway,  with  its  thousand  lights  and  lies,  not  in 
opera-houses,  theatres,  or  cafes,  but  from  some  perch 
of  vantage  must  the  nocturnal  scene  with  all  its  myster 
ious  melancholy  beauty  be  studied.  He  saw  a  cluster 
of  blazing  lights  across  at  the  West  Side  Circle,  a  ladder 
of  fire  the  pivot.  Further  down  theatre-land  dazzled 
with  its  tongues  of  flame.  Literally,  a  pit,  white-hot. 
Across  in  the  cool  shadows  of  the  east  are  level  lines 
of  twinkling  points.  The  bridges.  There  is  always  the 
sense  of  waters  not  afar.  The  hotels  are  tier  upon 


PAINTED  VEILS  225 

tier  starry  with  illumination.  The  Avenues,  long 
shafts  of  bluish-white  electric  globed  fire.  The  mono 
liths  burn  as  if  to  a  fire-god  their  votive  offerings.  In 
the  moonlight  mansions  on  Fifth  Avenue  seemed  snow- 
driven.  The  Synagogue  opposite  the  park,  half  byzan- 
tine,  half  moresque,  might  have  been  mistaken  for  an 
Asiatic  mosque  as  it  lay  sleeping  in  the  moon-rays. 
The  park,  as  if  liquified,  flowed  in  plastic  rhythms,  a 
lake  of  velvety  foliage,  a  mezzotint  dividing  the  east 
from  the  west.  Sudden  furnace  bonfires  leap  up  from 
the  Brooklyn  side;  they  are  purely  commercial; 
Ulick  looked  for  Whistler's  rockets.  Battery  Place 
and  the  Bay  are  operatic,  the  stage  for  a  thrilling  fairy 
spectacle.  The  dim,  scattered  plain  of  granite  house 
tops  are  like  a  petrified  cemetery  of  immemorial 
Titans.  At  night,  he  mused,  the  city  loses  its  New 
World  aspect.  It  reveals  the  patina  of  Time.  It  is  a 
city  exotic,  semi-barbaric,  the  fantasy  of  an  oriental 
sorcerer  who  had  been  mad  enough  to  evoke  from 
unplumbed  and  forgotten  seas  the  long  lost  Atlantis  .  . . 
The  buzzing  of  the  annunciator,  a  man's  voice 
aroused  Ulick  from  his  reverie.  He  hopped  into  the 
room  where  he  found  Paul.  The  greeting  of  the  pair 
was  cordial;  there  wasn't  the  slightest  feeling  of 
jealousy  between  them,  and  this  was  something  Dora 
detested.  Competition  is  the  life  of  cocottes,  she 
declared  early  and  often.  In  her  feline  fashion  she  had 
tried  to  arouse  the  jealousy  of  Paul  and  Ulick,  but 
vainly.  Ulick  was  touchy  when  Easter's  name  was 


226  PAINTED  VEILS 

in  the  mouth  of  Paul,  and  he  knew  that  if  Paul  ever 
dared  to  speak  of  Mona  disrespectfully,  he  would 
smash  him.  But  jealousy  over  Dora?  Pas  pour  trois 
sous! 

Dora  was  a  safe  port  in  emotional  storms.  When 
all  fruit  fails  welcome  haws,  runs  the  adage.  Ulick 
had  been  on  the  jagged  edge  of  ennui  ever  since  the 
visit  of  Mona.  He  hadn't  the  courage  to  look  into  his 
soul,  black  with  a  viler  sin.  To  distract  himself,  like 
the  man  who  drinks  to  forget,  he  had  gone  up  to  Dora's 
overlooking  the  fact  that  it  was,  for  all  he  knew,  Paul's 
"evening  at  home."  Still,  no  bones  were  broken  and  he 
shook  Paul's  hand  and  said  bienvenu!  Dora  glowered. 
She  talked  to  herself.  She  went  into  the  kitchen  and 
raised  her  voice  to  the  new  cook.  She  noisily  rattled 
dishes,  pushed  the  furniture  and  behaved  like  a  woman 
misunderstood.  She,  too,  had  her  grievances.  These 
fellows  of  hers  weren't  behaving  on  the  square.  Now, 
what  did  Ulick  Invern  mean  by  coming  up  when  he 
knew  he  would  run  into  Paul!  Did  he  do  it  on  purpose, 
just  to  annoy  her?  She  whimpered  in  the  pantry  as 
she  took  down  the  decanter  of  whisky  and  put  the 
glasses  on  a  tray;  whatever  else  might  be  criticised  in 
her  conduct  no  one  ever  would  accuse  her  of  inhos- 
pitality.  This  consoling  idea  struck  her  and  to  drive 
it  home  more  securely  in  her  self-esteem  she  helped 
herself  to  a  generous  drink.  It  was  not  the  first  "hooker" 
she  had  drunk  that  day;  in  fact,  she  was  admirably 
intoxicated  when  Ulick  arrived,  and  she  knew  that  he 


PAINTED  VEILS  227 

noticed  it.  It  was  her  standing  grievance  against  him 
that  he  couldn't  be  persuaded  to  drink  or  smoke.  It 
seemed  to  put  him  on  a  pedestal  above  her  and  she 
hated  pedestals.  Now  there  was  Paul — always  half- 
stewed  .  .  .  She  fetched  in  the  liquor. 

They  played  cards,  that  is,  Dora  and  Paul  wrangled 
over  some  game,  Ulick  interesting  himself  in  a  news 
paper;  there  wasn't  a  book  in  the  apartment  fit  to 
open.  Dora's  dissatisfaction  grew  apace.  Slapping 
the  cards  down  she  called  to  Ulick:  "You're  the  nice 
one  I  don't  think.  You  don't  drink  or  smoke,  you  can't 
even  play  poker.  What  are  you  good  for  anyhow?" 
Bored,  Ulick  went  into  the  hall  after  his  hat  and  stick. 
The  hints  of  Dora  were  not  cryptic.  He  felt  that  three 
is  company,  two  none,  and  he  determined  to  leave 
them  to  their  desperate  ennui  a  deux.  But  he  had 
counted  without  Paul. 

"Where  are  you  off  to,  old  top?"  Paul  asked.  "Wait 
a  bit  and  I'm  with  you."  Dora  revolted.  "You  make 
me  tired,  both  of  you.  First  Ulick,  then  you,  Paul, 
and  you're  going  to  see  the  girls,  I  swear  to  that." 
"No,"  politely  contradicted  Paul,  "no  girls  when  we  can 
have  your  company  Dodo."  "That's  why  you  slip  away 
and  leave  me  to  spend  the  evening  alone  within  four 
walls.  Well,  that's  where  you'll  get  left.  I'm  going  to 
ring  for  a  taxi  and  I'll  go  across  to  Edie's.  She  always 
has  company."  She  was  again  on  the  verge  of  tears. 
Paul's  next  speech  precipitated  the  explosion,  though 


228  PAINTED  VEILS 

from  an  unexpected  quarter.    Turning  to  Ulick  he  had 
banteringly  remarked: 

"Jewel,  I'm  off  to  Europe  Saturday.  I'm  going  to 
Paris  on  the  fastest  boat  I  can  get,  the  'Deutschland'. 
I  hope  to  see  Easter  in  Paris.  Shall  I  give  her  your 
love?"  He  meant  it  innocently,  but  his  manner  proved 
the  red  rag  to  the  bull.  Ulick  became  pale,  surest  sign 
that  he  was  angered.  He  didn't  answer  at  once,  then, 
as  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  he  said  in  his  chilliest  voice : 
"I  never  discuss  ladies  with  such  men  as  you  and  par 
ticularly  in  such  surroundings."  This  rude  speech  sent 
Paul  up  into  the  air;  he,  too,  had  been  drinking  far 
more  than  was  good  for  him.  He  went  over  to  Ulick 
and  said:  "What's  the  matter  with  you?  Can't  I 
mention  Easter's  name  without  you  rearing  on  your 
hind  legs?  Perhaps  I  should  have  asked  for  Mona's 
permission" — He  got  no  further.  Ulick's  reach  was 
long,  his  attack  swift — he  hadn't  studied  for  naught 
boxing  with  his  father's  old  fencing-master,  an  Irish 
man,  in  Paris.  He  landed  his  "left"  full  on  Paul's 
chest  and  Paul  reached  the  floor  amid  a  huge  clatter  of 
displaced  chairs,  the  table,  its  glasses  and  decanter. 
He  lay  there,  not  so  much  stunned,  as  reflective.  De 
cidedly  he  was  not  in  the  same  class  with  this  heroic 
Franco- American.  Dora  came  to  the  rescue  with 
screams  of  rage.  Aroused  by  the  scrimmage  a  coloured 
girl  stood  staring  from  the  kitchen,  the  whites  of  her 
eyes  like  cream,  thunder-curdled.  She  proved  the 
lightning-rod  that  drew  off  the  accumulated  electricity 


PAINTED  VEILS  229 

of  Dora,  who  was  fearful  that  the  row  had  been  over 
heard  in  the  eminently  respectable  house.  She  flew  at 
the  unfortunate  cook. 

"Get  to  hell  out  of  here!"  she  shouted,  then  turned 
on  her  guests.  Ulick,  shamefaced,  stammered  an 
excuse  as  he  helped  Paul  to  his  feet.  This  proved  the 
acme  of  Dora's  unhappiness.  "As  for  you  two,  you  clear 
out.  I've  no  use  for  you.  Always  hanging  around  with 
your  nasty  messing  ways.  Clear  out,  both  of  you,  or 
I'll  call  the  police.  Ruining  my  reputation  with  your 
scrapping.  I  won't  have  it  here,  I  tell  you.  My  lease 
says  no  fighting  is  allowed  on  the  premises,  and  what 
have  you  fellows  been  doing?  Get  away.  I  won't 
hear  any  excuses.  And  fighting  about  two  ladies" — 
she  sarcastically  lowered  her  voice  at  the  mention  of 
ladies — "Nice  ladies  they  must  be.  Sly  sluts,  that's 
what  they  are.  Don't  tell  me.  Little  Dora  knows  your 
fine  society  dames,  your  artistic  ladies — whores  the 
whole  lot  of  them."  With  that  she  bundled  her  "gen 
tlemen  friends"  out  of  the  apartment.  "Good-bye, 
Dodo,"  cried  Paul.  "I'll  drop  in  to  say  a  last  good-bye 
before  Saturday."  But  the  door  slammed  for  an  answer 
and  presently  they  were  on  the  lift  and  soon  in  the 
street.  Paul,  his  good  temper  reasserting  itself  passed 
his  arm  through  the  abashed  Ulick's,  and  casually 
exclaimed:  "I  say,  old  man,  you  have  a  punch!  Let's 
walk  down  to  the  Utopian.  The  fresh  air  will  do  me 
good.  But  am  I  thirsty!"  The  young  men  slowly 
moved  down  the  Avenue  arm  in  arm,  apparently  the 


230  PAINTED  VEILS 

best  of  friends.  .  .  .  Late  that  night  Dora  was 
brought  home  by  two  "lady-friends"  in  a  shockingly 
intoxicated  condition. 


VIII 

.  .  .  Time  fugued.  Being  no  longer  under  the 
obligation  of  visiting  Dora  since  the  shindy  he  had  made 
in  her  home,  Ulick  became  truly  intimate  with  Mona. 
They  lived  like  sensible  married  people.  They  walked 
in  the  park.  They  went  to  the  theatre,  to  concerts  and 
the  opera.  They  met  every  afternoon.  At  least  three 
times  a  week  Mona  took  luncheon  at  the  Maison  Felice. 
She  was  not  noticed  there  any  more  than  the  other 
ladies  who  came  with  their  lovers.  She  would  then  go 
afterward  to  Ulick's  rooms  where  he  played  Chopin 
for  her,  read  to  her,  made  love  to  her;  passionate  love. 
She  had  revised  that  first  hasty  judgment  and  now 
found  the  life  sensual  an  entrancing  experience.  She 
had  confessed  to  him  her  disappointments,  and  for 
answer  he  read  aloud  Stendhal's  Lamiel  that  extraor 
dinary  unfinished  fiction,  with  Lamiel's  similar  adven 
ture.  "Is  that  all?"  asks  this  disconcerting  heroine,  after 
she  had  bribed  with  silver  a  stout  peasant  lad  to  induct 
her  into  the  mystery  of  sex.  This  episode  revolted 
Mona,  who  saw  in  love,  but  one  object — children. 
Ulick  realized  now  it  was  maternity  suppressed  that 
had  sent  her  to  him  knocking  at  his  closed  door.  Love 
with  her  was  not  only  a  sensation,  but  also  a  sentiment. 


PAINTED  VEILS  231 

She  was  not  a  sentimental  girl.  She  loved  Ulick,  but 
she  loved  children  more.  "The  sacred  wound  of 
maternity"  was  a  phrase  that  appealed  to  her;  it  was 
thus  she  had  heard  called  the  semi-mysterious  function 
of  the  lunar  sex;  that  sex  upon  which  the  moon  had 
impressed  its  rhythms.  Mona,  under  the  skin,  was  a 
matter-of-fact  woman  for  whom  Mother  Nature  could 
do  no  wrong.  She  loved  children,  and  in  default  of 
them  she  delighted  in  the  poetic  fiction  of  dream- 
children.  Ulick  had  only  to  pronounce  the  names  of 
Grane  and  Shamus  to  see  her  face  swept  as  if  by  joyful 
news.  Temperamentally  she  was  elected  to  happy 
motherhood.  This  idea  caused  him  much  disquietude. 

With  intense  interest  he  read  of  Easter's  debut  at 
Munich.  She  had  sung  Isolde  with  immense  success. 
The  cables  were  choked  with  stories  of  her  brilliant 
singing,  dramatic  acting.  The  three  Brunnhildes 
followed,  and  a  few  weeks  later  a  royal  command  came 
from  Baireuth;  Queen  Cosima  graciously  permitted 
the  American  girl  to  be  a  "guest"  for  a  week.  Again — 
Isolde,  Brunnhilde,  and  most  startling  of  all — Kundry. 
She  would  be  the  first  American  to  sing  in  Parsifal  at 
Baireuth.  After  that,  offers  from  Paris,  Berlin,  Lon 
don,  and  no  doubt,  from  New  York.  But  the  Metro 
politan  House  management  was  impenetrable.  Easter 
had  changed  her  name  to  Istar  .  .  .  Istar  the 
daughter  of  sin!  chuckled  Alfred  Stone.  .  . 


THE  SIXTH  GATE 

At  the  sixth  gate,  the  warden  stripped  her;  he  took  the 
rings  from  her  feet,  the  rings  from  her  hands.     .     . 


Ulick  earnestly  pondered  the  character  of  Mona. 
Their  long  conversations  about  the  world,  the  flesh,  and 
the  devil  revealed,  as  in  a  mirror,  her  soul.  She  was 
essentially  a  pure  girl,  because  she  saw  no  evil  in  life. 
Nature  was  her  sole  standard.  A  pantheist  in  petti 
coats.  She  was  as  severe  in  her  strictures  upon  prudish 
women  as  her  mother  was  in  her  judgments  upon  the 
contemporaneous  girl.  Ulick  called  it  an  inverted  dog 
matism.  But,  then,  he  reflected,  scratch  any  woman 
and  you  come  on  a  squaw;  only  the  squaw  is  truer  to 
type  than  the  modern  woman.  He  noted,  too,  the 
gradual  encroachment  upon  his  time,  his  spirit,  of 
Mona.  Her  tenacity  alarmed  him.  She  said  nothing 
about  marriage;  that  side  of  the  question  never 
obtruded.  Mona  was  a  free-thinker  a  outrance;  a  law 
unto  herself.  She  seemed  to  be  without  the  prejudices 
of  her  sex.  She  didn't  interest  herself  in  the  woman- 
question,  which  she  believed  was  purely  an  individual 
one.  Let  each  woman  agitate  for  herself.  Let  her  re 
volt  be  within  four  walls.  Let  every  tub  stand  on  its 
own  bottom.  The  most  refractory  male  is  always 
forced  to  lower  his  standard  befpre  the  conquering  arms 
of  woman.  Rabelais — or  is  it  Balzac? — calls  it  by  its 
true  name:  the  glue-pot  of  love.  Walt  Whitman  goes 
him  one  better.  Nevertheless,  Ulick  detected  signs  of 


236  PAINTED  VEILS 

the  tyrannical  female  in  her  perpetual  hovering  about 
him.  Even  of  the  most  tender,  flower-like  women  one 
might  say :  This  is  the  shrew  Shakespeare  drew.  Every 
woman  is  a  potential  shrew,  he  decided,  and  Ophelia 
would  have  been  no  exception  if  she  had  married 
Hamlet.  All  men  are  born  to  be  henpecked.  Celi 
bates,  whether  priests  or  laymen,  are  not  exempted  from 
this  primal  curse.  If  it  isn't  a  female  relative  then  it's 
a  housekeeper,  a  cook  or  a  laundress.  Down-trodden 
women  are  to  blame  for  their  supine  attitude.  Let 
them  fly  the  flag  of  revolt.  The  men  will  soon  surrender. 

Finally,  one  spring  afternoon  in  the  park,  they  set 
tled  these  burning  problems  of  humanity  and  were 
strolling  by  the  swan-boats  when  they  were  hailed  by 
Dora,  who,  to  the  critical  eye  of  Ulick,  had  never 
been  prettier.  She  accosted  the  couple  quite  unabashed. 

"Hello,  Jewel !"  she  cried,  as  she  smiled  at  Mona,  who 
returned  the  smile,  and  thought  that  Ulick  might  have 
kept  his  pet  name  for  her  benefit.  Ulick  was  embar 
rassed  only  a  moment.  He  expected  to  see  fur  fly  and 
when  nothing  happened  he  introduced  the  girls  in 
formal  fashion.  Mile.  Dora,  Mile.  Mona.  Et  voila 
tout!  As  a  foreigner  their  introduction  revolted  his 
taste.  Some  hazy  idea  born  of  the  notion  that  here  in 
America  the  social  lines  were  not  so  rigidly  marked, 
had  forced  him  into  a  false  position.  He  looked  around 
him.  He  was  fearful  that  acquaintances  might  see  the 
absurd  group:  the  harlot  and  the  mistress.  What  to 
do  now!  Mona  saved  the  situation  by  her  aplomb. 


PAINTED  VEILS  237 

She  chatted  with  Dora,  who,  as  soon  as  she  was  put  on 
a  level  with  the  other  woman,  began  to  exhibit  signs 
of  discomfort.  Her  native  insouciance  had  prompted 
her  to  hold  up  Ulick  merely  to  annoy  Mona.  This 
manoeuvre  failing  she  had  to  fall  back  into  her  own 
rank,  which  she  did,  precipitately. 

"Well,  I  must  be  goin',"  she  said.  "Pleased  to  have 
met  you  Miss — Mademoiselle — I  forget.  Jewel's 
French  names  give  me  a  grouch — Miss  Mona."  She 
made  a  little  curtsey.  "Ulick,  I  live  in  the  same  apart 
ment.  I'm  a  regular  homebody.  So  run  up,  whenever 
you  have  a  night  free — that  is  if  your  sweetheart  will 
let  you.  You  don't  mind  me,  Jewel  and  me  are  such 
old  friends."  She  flitted  away.  Mona  had  smiled 
sweetly.  Ulick  was  wrathful.  It  was  Dora's  method 
of  revenge  because  of  his  prolonged  absence;  he  hadn't 
seen  her  since  the  night  of  his  tiff  with  Paul.  He 
hastened  to  apologize  for  the  contretemps.  Mona 
didn't  mind,  so  she  told  him.  She  only  registered  her 
feelings  in  an  ironical  aside :  "Charming  friend  of  yours, 
Miss  Dora."  Then  they  talked  of  other  things. 

Living  as  husband  and  wife,  they  pooled  their  inti 
macies  and  discussed  life  as  if  they  spent  it  in  domestic 
seclusion.  They  almost  did.  Only  at  dinner  time  did 
Mona  go  home.  She  had  said  nothing  of  Ulick  to  her 
parents,  nor  had  she  asked  Ulick  to  call.  That  puzzled 
him.  Certainly  she  was  not  ashamed  of  him.  She 
paraded  herself  everywhere  with  him.  They  often  met 
Alfred,  who  now  took  their  friendship  as  a  matter  of 


238  PAINTED  VEILS 

course.  He  teased  them,  asking  if  the  day  had  been 
announced,  but  he  seldom  visited  the  Maison  Felice. 
He  told  Ulick  that  he  had  finer  fish  to  fry,  and  taunted 
him  with  being  a  sentimentalist. 

"Not  that  Mona  isn't  a  superior  girl.  She  is  won 
derful.  But  you  are  more  wonderful.  You,  of  all  men, 
to  fall  in  so  speedily.  I'm  afraid,  Jewel,  you  will  make 
a  sorry  husband.  You  should  have  remained  in  Paris. 
And  what  will  our  dear  old  Easter,  the  celebrated 
Wagner  singer,  Istar,  say  when  she  hears  that  her 
young  man  has  deserted  her?"  At  Easter's  name 
Ulick's  brow  wrinkled.  His  only  answer  was  "Qui  sait?" 

.  .  .  One  afternoon  in  early  summer  Mona  visited 
Ulick.  He  was  looking  from  his  window  at  a  flock  of 
pigeons  on  the  roof  of  the  dining-room.  As  soon  as 
Mona  entered  he  noted  her  blithe  June  air,  but  the 
expression  of  her  eyes  evoked  autumnal  cemeteries. 
"What's  up,  little  mamma?"  he  asked  as  he  embraced 
her.  She  buried  her  head  in  his  breast.  "I'm  out  of 
breath,  Jewel,"  she  panted.  "I  think  mother  followed 
me  today.  She  has  been  spying  on  me  most  curiously 
for  the  past  month.  I  wonder  if  she  suspects?"  "She 
wouldn't  be  a  woman  if  she  didn't.  You  give  her  lots 
of  reasons  to  suspect — "  he  added,  and  at  once  re 
gretted  having  spoken.  Mona  withdrew  her  arms  and 
going  to  the  couch  sat  down  and  incontinently  burst 
into  tears.  In  a  moment  Ulick  was  consoling  her. 
She  enjoyed  a  copious  weeping,  and  drying  her  eyes 
she  took  him  into  her  confidence. 


PAINTED  VEILS  239 

No,  there  couldn't  be  the  slightest  doubt.  .  . 
Three  months  had  passed.  Nothing!  Perhaps  her 
mother  had  been  keeping  tabs.  Prudent  mothers  do, 
and  if  her  darling  old  mumsey  was  innocent  of  the 
world's  ways,  she  possessed  the  common-sense  of  the 
average  woman,  more  sense,  in  fact,  than  her  dear 
father,  always  dreaming  over  chess  or  metaphysical 
problems.  Although  for  months  he  had  been  expecting 
just  such  news  Ulick  couldn't  repress  a  long  whistle; 
then  he  gave  her  a  bear-hug.  She  nestled,  closed  her 
eyes  with  a  sigh  of  profound  contentment.  He  studied 
her  face.  There  were  violet  bruises  under  her  eyes,  and 
her  features  had  become  measurably  meagre.  Her  high 
cheek-bones  showed  more  saliently.  Her  plump  body 
felt  softer  to  his  touch.  Good  God!  She  was  enceinte, 
and  there  sat  the  pair  of  them  without  a  sense  of  guilt, 
shame,  or  worriment  over  the  future.  Modern?  Dis 
gusting!  Gently  releasing  her  he  began  to  pace  the 
floor.  She  watched  him.  She  was  perfectly  content. 
There  is  no  tomorrow  for  such  love.  The  pain  in  store 
for  her,  the  world's  censure,  the  shock  to  her  poor 
parents,  the  outraged  pride  that  would  be  Milt's — none 
of  these  things  mattered  now.  She  would  in  due  time 
become  a  mother.  She  was  in  the  family-way — homely, 
eloquent  phrase,  for  some  girls  the  abomination  of 
desolation,  whether  married  or  single;  for  Mona  a  clear 
title  to  happiness.  Oh!  the  joys  of  motherhood.  A 
live  lump  of  flesh  in  her  bosom.  Her  flesh  and  Jewel's ! 
What  matters  a  ring,  a  bit  of  parchment,  a  ceremony? 


240  PAINTED  VEILS 

Nature,  generous,  glorious  Nature,  had  performed  this 
miracle  in  her  behalf.  She  had  in  the  recesses  of  her 
being  created  life.  Illegitimate?  There  are  no  such 
monsters.  All  babies  are  legitimate  and  bastards  are 
sometime  more  beautiful.  In  the  fulness  of  her  heart, 
from  which  the  mouth  speaketh,  she  uttered  all  these 
ideas  to  her  lover,  and  he  smiled,  too;  was  he  not 
above  vulgar  prejudice!  Marry  her?  Of  course,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  when  she  wished.  She  was  too 
proud,  too  happy  to  mention  the  odious  word.  Wait 
till  baby  was  born;  that  was  the  only  thing  that 
mattered.  What  could  count  in  comparison  with  that 
magnificent  fact — a  healthy  boy  baby!  Mona  fairly 
snuggled  in  Ulick's  arms.  Her  eyes  were  wet  with 
maternal  ecstacy.  No  nymphomania  in  this  darling 
woman,  thought  Ulick. 

Nevertheless,  he  began  to  take  the  affair  more  tragi 
cally.  Suppose  her  parents  would  cast  her  off!  Sup 
pose  that  Milt  would  avenge  her  dishonour!  Suppose 
that  she  died  in  accouchement!  Suppose — she  stayed 
his  mouth  and  called  him  a  croaking  raven.  Suppose 
anything,  for  that  matter.  Milt  didn't  count.  He 
wouldn't  be  home  at  the  time — she  computed  on  her 
fingers — and  as  to  her  parents,  she  hadn't  made  up 
her  mind  on  any  plan  of  action.  She  knew  that  she 
couldn't  or  wouldn't,  come  out  flatly  now  with  the  truth. 
That  way  would  be  disaster.  How  could  she  go  away 
and  write  those  dear  little  unworldly  people?  That 
would  be  cowardice.  No,  whatever  course  she  would 


PAINTED  VEILS  241 

adopt,  she  must  remain  near  her  father  and  mother. 
She  must  shock  them,  also  console  them.  Refusal 
of  their  forgiveness  she  did  not  anticipate.  Only — 
only,  one  obstacle  loomed  ahead — their  treatment  of 
her  Jewel,  of  the  father  of  her  beloved  unborn  child. 
Supposing  she  gave  birth  to  twins !  Grane  and  Shamus ! 
What  a  paradise  life  would  be !  At  once  she  saw  herself 
playing  with  her  babies  in  her  Ebony  Tower,  con 
verted  into  a  nursery,  a  super-nursery  for  their  super- 
babies,  she  playfully  told  him.  He  couldn't  view  the 
case  so  disinterestedly. 

"Yes,  but  darling  girl,  the  chief  bother  to  me  is 
what  will  your  parents  say — or  do — to  me?  I'll  only 
be  a  commonplace  seducer  in  their  eyes.  Old-fashioned 
people  can't  shed  their  prejudices  as  snakes  shed  their 
skins.  I  fear  a  big  row.  Naturally,  we  must  get  mar 
ried — at  once;  Mona,  immediately!"  He  said  this  but 
his  words  lacked  steam  and  sincerity  to  the  acute  ear 
of  the  girl.  She  felt  assured  that  he  saw  no  other 
girl  save  her,  yet  she  knew  young  men,  knew  Ulick, 
knew  that  his  hell  of  good  intentions  was  often  paved 
with  fickle  promises.  Let  matters  take  their  natural 
course  without  undue  meddling.  After  baby  was  born 
it  would  be  time  enough  to  discuss  matrimony.  That 
she  was  challenging  by  her  unusual  conduct  worldly 
judgments  she  knew.  Never  cross  a  bridge  till  you 
reach  one.  Oh !  her  baby,  her  baby  boy,  her  Shamus — 
maybe  her  Grane,  her  little  white  Wagnerian  pony. 
She  laughed. 


242  PAINTED  VEILS 

He  resumed  his  futile  rambling  round  the  room.  An 
idea,  a  disagreeable  idea,  was  crystallizing.  Why  not? 
Other  women  have  undergone  the  peril.  After  several 
shaky  beginnings,  he  finally  compromised  with  his 
conscience  by  whispering  in  her  ear.  She  blushed. 
Then  repulsing  him  she  exclaimed,  No!  And  he  had 
never  expected  such  decision  from  a  girl  of  her  easy- 
drifting  nature.  "And  you  born  a  Roman  Catholic!" 
she  sorrowfully  concluded.  Ruefully  he  acquiesced. 
There  was  no  way  out.  Abortion  is  the  resort  of 
assassins.  What  else?  Matrimony  would  solve  the 
question.  Then  Mona  could  possess  her  soul  in  peace. 
She  could  have  her  baby,  to  be  sure,  a  few  months 
ahead  of  time,  but  she  could  look  her  world  in  the  eye. 
There  was  further  palaver,  nothing  decided  upon. 
She  embraced  Jewel  and  went  home  in  a  taxi,  because, 
as  she  told  herself,  she  must  not  take  any  chances. 
Already  she  felt  life  within  her;  her  breakfasts  she  got 
rid  of  in  a  summary  fashion,  as  she  was  too  nauseated 
to  swallow  them.  Tea  she  could  manage.  Eggs — ugh! 
The  symptoms  were  classic,  her  case  normal.  But 
never  would  she  consent  to  destroy  sentient  life.  No 
such  via  dolorosa  was  in  store  for  her. 

A  few  weeks  later  just  as  Ulick  was  leaving  to  "cover" 
the  first  night  of  "The  Lady  With  the  Lace  Legs"  at 
the  Empire,  he  was  intercepted  by  Madame  Felice, 
whose  kindly  face  wore  a  worried  expression :  Monsieur 
Invern,  you  are  demanded  on  the  telephone.  II  y  en 
a  quelque  chose  de  grave  pour  vous.  I  hope  your 


PAINTED  VEILS  243 

young  lady,  cette  charmante  fille,  Mile.  Mona,  is  not 
so  ill  as  they  say.  Mais  depechez-vous,  cher  Monsieur! 
On  vous  attend."  Ulick  took  up  the  receiver.  A 
woman's  voice  asked  in  quavering  accents:  "Is  this 
Mr.  Invern?"  "Yes."  "This  is  Mrs.  Milton,  Mona's 
mother.  You  know  where  we  live,  yes?  Please  come 
up  at  once.  Mona  is  ill — very  ill — she  may  not  last 
through  the  night.  You  know  what's  the  matter.  Oh ! 
Do  come!  She  asks  for  you  whenever  the  pains  allow 
her.  Don't  fear  coming,  Mr.  Invern.  Her  father 
understands.  Only — hurry — for  God's  sake  hurry !"  At 
his  side  the  Madame  had  clearly  heard  every  word. 
But  what  mattered  that?  She  was  hugely  tolerant. 
She  wasn't  a  gossip.  And  now  she  was  most  sympa 
thetic.  While  he  rang  up  his  newspaper  she  sent  out 
for  a  taxi.  He  soon  finished  with  his  night  editor.  He 
felt  ill.  Couldn't  the  city  department  get  someone  to 
cover  the  operetta?  Besides,  he  was  only  obliging  his 
confrere,  the  music-critic  who  had  a  poker  party  on 
at  his  house.  Music  was  not  in  Ulick's  bailiwick.  The 
affair  was  soon  settled.  Fifteen  minutes  later  he  was 
ringing  at  the  Milton's. 


II 

A  maid  opened  the  door.  Her  face  was  drawn,  and 
she  enveloped  the  half-frantic  young  man  in  a  hostile 
gaze.  He  felt  like  a  guilty  scoundrel.  Evidently  he 
was  in  for  a  hard  night,  but  he  didn't  trouble  about 


244  PAINTED  VEILS 

himself.  His  unique  sorrow  was  Mona.  He  walked 
up  and  down  the  semi-darkened  drawing-room.  A 
premature  birth.  Without  doubt.  It  could  be  nothing 
else,  unless — unless  an  accident  had  supervened.  Per 
haps  his  darling  had  been  run  down  by  some  selfish 
brute  of  a  motorist — Mona  was  so  imprudent — he  was 
become  well-nigh  frantic  when  Mrs.  Milton  entered.  He 
thought  her  positively  angelic  when  she  came  to  him 
and  took  his  hand  in  hers.  "Don't  worry  too  much, 
Mr.  Invern.  Mona  is  better  since  she  knows  you  are 
here.  No,  no!  I  shan't  listen  to  any  accusations. 
.  .  .  We  understand,  and  to  understand  is  to  for 
give.  Mr.  Milton  thinks  as  I  do.  How  did  it  happen ! 
Mona  was  nearly  killed  by  an  auto  this  morning.  She 
crossed  the  avenue  dreaming  of  her  future  happiness. 
Yes,  the  sweet  child  has  told  us  all.  Don't  be  shocked. 
Girls  have  different  moral  codes  today  and  parents 
must  try  to  sympathize  with  them;  if  they  do  not, 
then  they  can't  be  of  use  to  their  daughters — and  that 
would  be  terrible.  The  wheels  missed  her  but  she  re 
ceived  a  glancing  blow  on  the  shoulder  and  arm.  She 
fell,  and  heavily,  but  she  didn't  faint.  The  gentleman 
in  the  car  drove  her  home.  He  was  very  much  con 
cerned,  although  I  am  sure  he  was  not  to  blame.  The 
doctor  said  the  blow  was  superficial.  He  bandaged  her 
shoulder,  and  put  her  arm  in  a  sling" — Ulick  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  groaned: 

"Poor,  suffering  Mona!"     Her  mother  touched  his 
arm  reassuringly.     "All  went  well  till  late  this  after- 


PAINTED  VEILS  245 

noon.  Mona  began  to  suffer  atrociously.  Pains  in  her 
abdomen.  They  were  so  horrible  that  I  summoned  the 
doctor  again.  She  didn't  mind  him,  she  was  suffering 
so:  He  hinted  at  the  shock  and  asked  to  examine  her, 
fearing,  no  doubt,  peritonitis.  And  that's  precisely 
what  it  is  .  .  .as  soon  as  he  saw  her  poor  swollen 
figure.  .  .  Of  course,  he  knew  at  once  .  .  .  and 
that  brave  girl  never  flinched.  Her  first  question  was 
the  safety  of  the  ...  of  her  child  .  .  .  when  he 
told  her  the  truth.  Tears  rolled  down  her  cheek  .  .  . 
that,  and  no  thought  of  disgrace  troubled  her  .  .  . 
she  bites  the  pillow-case  when  the  pains  return,  she 
won't  scream  .  .  .  such  a  brave  girl.  .  .  She 
holds  as  tight  as  her  strength  allows  that  big  doll  of 
hers.  .  .  Oh,  Mr.  Invern,  don't  cry.  Be  brave. 
You  must  see  her  .  .  .  she  doesn't  speak  of  anyone 
but  you — she  says  you  are  her  dear  husband — as  you 
are  in  the  sight  of  God — No,  Mr.  Milton  takes  the 
thing  philosophically.  He  entertains  no  harsh  thoughts 
concerning  you.  Young  people!  Ah!  Mr.  Invern, 
this  is  a  sad  meeting.  My  son  Milt  has  spoken  so  often 
of  you,  and  so  beautifully — why  didn't  Mona  tell  us 
of  her  love  for  you?  We  should  have  been  happy  to 
receive  you — but  now — the  future  is  a  blank.  She  fell 
asleep  when  she  learned  that  you  were  here.  Her 
father  is  with  her,  and  the  doctor — he  would  give  us  no 
definite  promise — septicaemia  he  fears,  and  that  awful 
peritonitis  .  .  .  wait,  I'll  go  see  if  you  may  come." 
Like  a  genteel  apparition  she  stole  away,  leaving  Ulick 


246  PAINTED  VEILS 

in  a  doleful  mood.  Where  his  philosophy  now?  Where 
his  calm  attitude  of  a  spectator  on  the  sidewalk  of  life? 
Vanished  all  his  shallow  theories.  Confronted  by  in 
vincible  facts  his  sensual  day-dreams  shrivelled  into 
nothingness.  Only  Mona — only  that  she  be  spared, 
he  prayed,  and  prayed  for  the  first  time  since  his  boy 
hood.  "O  Jesus,  sauve-moi!  Sans  toi  je  perira!"  A 
scrap  of  a  supplication  he  had  heard  his  mother  utter 
many  times  in  her  tribulations:  Mrs.  Milton  was 
beckoning  from  the  door.  He  followed  her,  treading 
as  lightly  as  he  could.  He  was  chilled  with  fear. 

She  lay  under  a  counterpane  that  was  as  white  as 
her  face.  The  room  was  empty,  the  father  and  medical 
man  elsewhere.  She  slept.  A  large  French  doll  was 
clasped  in  her  arms.  Her  heavy  hair  had  been  braided 
and  rolled  off  her  forehead.  Her  features  were  discom 
posed,  her  eyelids  discoloured.  Shocked  by  the  change 
he  saw  in  her,  Ulick  knelt  at  the  bedside.  Mrs.  Milton 
remained  without.  Mona's  breathing  was  irregular. 
She  looked  ten  years  older.  He  hated  the  grotesque  doll 
with  the  staring  eyes  of  porcelain.  It  took  up  so  much 
space  in  her  bed — in  her  affection.  Her  eyes  opened. 

"Little  boy,"  she  tenderly  murmured,  and  stroked 
his  head.  He  choked  his  sobs.  "Don't  worry,  poor  little 
boy,  we  still  have  our  dream-babies."  Her  face  con 
tracted  with  sudden  pain.  It  was  ash-gray,  death-like, 
this  sweet  face.  She  held  his  hand  so  tightly  that  it 
hurt  him.  She  bit  the  sheet.  A  low  moaning  sound 
issued  from  her  lips,  foam-speckled.  No  longer  able 


PAINTED  VEILS  247 

to  endure  the  sight  of  her  suffering  he  called  her  mother. 
Mona  made  a  sign,  and  he  got  away,  he  hardly  knew 
how,  hurtling  into  the  two  men  as  he  went  through  the 
corridor.  The  doctor  paid  no  attention.  Mr.  Milton, 
an  old  man  with  a  head  too  large  for  his  body,  and  with 
white  hair  like  a  grizzled  mop,  looked  keenly  at  him, 
and  then  as  if  he  were  solving  some  intricate  chess- 
problem  he  paused,  ruminated,  and  finally  made  up  his 
mind.  He  conducted  the  young  man  who  had  wrought 
such  havoc  in  his  household  to  the  library,  gently 
pushed  him  into  a  chair,  offered  him  whisky  and  cigars. 
Ulick  shook  a  negative.  He  was  too  much  moved  to 
utter  a  word.  If  he  had  opened  his  mouth  it  would 
have  been  to  sob.  Apologies,  explanations,  offers  of 
reparation — all  such  silly  phraseology  were  forgotten 
in  the  rush  of  repentance.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
he  had  come  to  grips  with  naked  truth,  and  it  hurt 
like  a  knife  in  his  entrails.  He  could  only  sit  with  eyes 
half  closed  and  wait — wait.  Facing  him  was  her 
father,  who  smoked  a  pipe.  Neither  one  spoke.  The 
hours  slowly  went  by,  every  tick  of  the  clock  torture- 
breeding.  Tomorrow,  and  tomorrow,  and  tomorrow! 
It  was  dawn  when  the  groaning  of  the  girl  forced 
itself  into  his  ears,  though  all  doors  were  closed.  The 
crisis  approached.  Hurried  footsteps  were  heard  and 
the  brittle  sound  of  china.  The  odors  of  vinegar,  ether 
and  of  fumigating  pastilles  penetrated  his  nostrils. 
A  solitary  scream  punctuated  the  air.  Silence  followed, 
profound,  enigmatic.  Mr.  Milton  tiptoed  to  the  door 


248  PAINTED  VEILS 

and  listened.  The  orders  of  the  doctor  had  been  defi 
nite;  no  one  save  Mrs.  Milton  was  to  be  near  the 
sufferer.  When  Ulick,  at  last  no  longer  able  to  sit  still, 
approached  the  door,  the  father  raised  his  eyebrows. 
Not  yet!  At  six  o'clock  Mrs.  Milton  appeared.  She 
looked  worn  and  her  features  were  pinched,  but  she 
suggested  hope.  Trembling,  Ulick  took  her  hand. 
She  squeezed  his.  Her  husband  had  left  the  room. 

"The  crisis  is  passed,  the  doctor  tells  me.  There 
remains  the  danger  of  blood-poisoning.  She  is  weaker 
than  her  precious  doll.  She  was  delirious  for  a  time 
and  raved  over  her  dream-children.  She  always  loved 
babies.  Poor  Mona,  what  a  disappointment  her's?" 
He  rubbed  his  eyes.  Was  he  in  a  trance !  Such  people ! 
Such  a  father  and  mother!  Not  a  reproach.  He  might 
have  been  the  husband  of  Mona.  Truly  they  were  more 
than  Christian  in  their  charity,  in  their  comprehension; 
they  were  angelic — there  was  no  other  word  to  describe 
them  as  they  really  were.  He  asked  if  he  might  see 
Mona  once  more.  She  refused.  "Come  tonight  about 
nine  o'clock.  She  will  surely  see  you  then.  I'll  tell 
her  you  stayed  near  her  all  night.  Go  home,  and  do 
try  to  sleep.  Don't  worry.  Everything,  please  provi 
dence,  will  come  out  right."  Tears  fell  as  he  hurried 
through  the  morning  streets. 

Mona  slept,  though  fitfully,  her  doll  beside  her.  At 
intervals  she  opened  her  eyes  murmuring.  "Frustrate, 
frustrate!"  Her  mother  thought  that  she  was  again 
raving.  .  . 


PAINTED  VEILS  249 

III 

The  green  and  gold  of  summer  modulated  into  a 
gorgeous  autumnal  symphony  of  faint-coloured  flowers; 
scarlet,  yellow  and  russet  browns.  October  with  its 
tonic  and  out-door  joys  was  at  hand.  The  tree-tops 
beckoned  to  the  white  clouds,  lazily  floating  aloft. 
Ulick  longed  for  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire,  for  the 
Franconian  landscape  with  its  sweep  of  horizon.  One 
black  spot  in  his  memory  had  not  been  effaced.  In 
review  he  saw  the  fanatics  headed  by  the  chief  of  the 
Holy  Yowlers,  saw  Roarin'  Nell  and  Brother  Rainbow, 
saw,  Oh!  memorable  moment,  for  the  first  time  the 
glorious  woman  called  Easter,  Esther  Brandes,  now 
Istar,  the  famous  Isolde  and  Brunnhilde.  Would 
he  ever  see  her  again?  Did  he  really  long  for  her 
presence,  or  was  it  pure  fancy,  rather,  unmitigated 
curiosity?  Over  his  tea  and  toast  this  morning  he 
couldn't  reason  the  idea  to  a  logical  conclusion.  He 
knew  that  he  was  fickle.  But,  then,  that  was  in  the 
past.  There  was  only  one  girl  now — Dora  being  a 
light-of-love — and  that  was  Mona.  She  was  adorable — 
Mona,  and  her  parents  hardly  less  adorable.  Since  that 
tremendous  night  he  felt  that  his  love  for  her  had  been 
tested  as  in  a  fiery  furnace;  and  through  that  fiery 
furnace  had  passed  Mona,  little  the  worse  for  the  experi 
ence;  yet,  as  he  admitted  to  himself,  somehow  changed. 
She  was  subdued,  her  eyes  unquiet,  her  vivacity  of 
speech  dampened.  The  wound  in  her  consciousness 


250  PAINTED  VEILS 

had  left  a  deep  scar.    She  could  not  forget.    She  would 
never  forget. 

He  sighed  as  he  thought  of  the  change,  yet  he  was 
reconciled  to  their  altered  relationship.  Three  times 
a  week  he  dined  at  the  Milton's.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  the  cordiality  of  the  old  people;  they  liked  him 
and  showed  their  liking.  He  was  virtually  the  future 
son-in-law,  and  if,  at  times,  he  shuddered  if  he  thought 
of  marriage,  the  sober  joy  of  Mona  when  he  was 
with  them  proved  a  prop  to  buttress  up  his  irresolution. 
Milt  had  written  him  a  friendly  letter  in  which  trans 
pired  brotherly  pride.  It  was  a  certain  thing.  Ulick 
accepted  the  situation.  Fatalistic  by  temperament  as 
well  as  training,  he  told  himself  it  might  better  be 
Mona  than  any  other  girl.  She  was  charming.  But 
she  was  changed.  She  spoke  no  longer  of  her  doll,  of 
their  dream-children,  and  once,  when  he  had  invited 
her  to  luncheon  at  the  Maison  Felice,  offering  to  play 
Chopin  for  her  afterwards,  she  had  refused.  "I  have 
promised,"  was  her  explanation.  "You  play  for  me 
at  home,  even  if  our  upright  isn't  so  splendid  as  your 
Steinway  grand,  we  enjoy  you  just  the  same."  And 
when  he  had  mockingly  called  her  a  naughty  little 
coward,  she  responded:  "If  you  don't  ask  me  the 
reason,  perhaps  that  would  be  the  best  way  to  make  me 
tell  everything."  He  desisted,  though  he  yearned  for 
her.  He  was  not  a  man  to  resist  his  amorous  inclina 
tions.  Dora  was  off  his  visiting  list.  Mona,  then,  was 
his  sole  refuge.  She  saw  that  he  was  suffering,  but  she 


PAINTED  VEILS  251 

had  given  her  word  to  her  mother  that  she  would 
never  visit  Ulick  alone.  Once  only  and  in  company 
with  Mrs.  Milton  she  had  taken  luncheon  at  the 
Maison,  but  when  he  asked  them  to  go  to  his  music- 
room  she  hastily  refused.  See  that  room  again  she 
could  not.  She  feared  her  nerves  would  play  her  tricks. 
For  the  rest,  she  had  been  away  several  months,  in  the 
mountains,  at  the  seashore.  Her  languour  had  not  been 
dissipated;  "tedium  vitse,"  the  doctor  named  it.  She 
needed,  he  said,  an  ocean  trip,  a  complete  change  of 
scene.  But  she  preferred  not  to  leave  Ulick. 

He  glanced  through  the  news  columns  this  bright 
October  morning.  Suddenly  a  headline  and  a  name 
caught  his  eye.  Istar!  The  elopement  of  the  cele 
brated  opera  singer  Istar  with  a  prince  of  the  blood 
royal!  A  half  column  cable  despatch,  evidently  elabo 
rated  in  the  newspaper  office.  It  described  in  exagger 
ated  terms  the  elopement  of  Easter  with  a  Bavarian 
princeling  from  Munich.  She  had  been  singing  there 
as  "guest"  and  the  musical  prince  had  lost  his  head, 
though  married  to  a  dowdy  princess,  and  the  father  of 
an  increasing  family.  The  pair  had  run  away  in  the 
night  but  all  the  machinery  of  policedom  had  been  set 
whirring.  En  route  for  Lake  Como  they  were  tracked 
to  Vienna  and  there  arrested.  A  diplomatic  arrest, 
be  it  understood.  The  "avenging  wife"  figured  in  the 
denouement;  she  was  said  to  have  wielded  a  whip,  but 
Istar  grabbed  it  from  her  flaccid  grasp  and  gave  the 


252  PAINTED  VEILS 

unhappy  woman  a  genuine  horse- whipping.  But  doubt 
less  this  incident  was  manufactured  out  of  the  whole 
cloth.  The  wretched  princeling  was  nipped  and  in 
company  with  a  delegation  of  solemn  functionaries, 
was  sent  back  to  Munich,  where  he  was  solemnly 
spanked  and  put  to  bed — metaphorically.  The  affair 
made  a  terrific  scandal.  Istar  was  warned  by  the  secret 
police  that  she  would  be  expelled  if  she  ever  crossed 
the  Bavarian  border.  What  amused  Ulick  was  her 
reported  attitude  when  she  was  intercepted.  She 
swaggered  to  the  prince  and  shaking  his  chilly,  fright 
ened  hand,  she  insolently  hummed  a  familiar  tune: 
"Du  bist  verriickt  mein  Kind.  Du  muss  nach  Berlin" 
.  .  .  The  pompous  entourage  couldn't  stand  that 
and  there  were  discreet  smiles  and  much  wagging  of 
official  skulls.  Decidedly,  Easter  came  out  with  flying 
colours.  .  . 

Ulick  laid  down  the  paper.  Easter  was  surely  on  the 
road  to  victory.  Duels,  elopements,  scandals,  royal 
favours,  Good  Heavens!  how  that  girl  is  going  straight 
to  her  goal.  She  is  an  arriviste,  but  all  women  are 
arrivistes.  Never  mind  so  you  win !  When  he  thought 
of  some  women  and  compared  his  own  slow  mode  of 
reacting  to  circumstances  he  realised  that  his  incom 
petence  was  encyclopaedic.  He  admired  Easter  more 
than  ever,  admired  her  at  a  distance  of  three  thousand 
miles.  All  said  and  done  she  was  more  to  his  taste 
than  Mona.  He  was  worldly.  He  was  artistic.  He 
liked  the  eclat  of  operatic  triumphs.  Istar  had  arrived. 


PAINTED  VEILS  253 

Lilli  Lehmann,  retired;  Ternina  retired — who  was 
there,  except  Olive  Fremstad  to  take  their  place! 
Fremstad  would  prove  a  serious  rival  to  Easter.  No 
doubt  about  that.  But  she  had  visited  New  York  be 
fore  Easter,  and  that  would  give  the  girl  a  free  field. 

There  was  Mary  Garden,  who  had  been  startling 
Paris  from  its  musical  apathy  with  her  marvellous  Meli- 
sande.  And  the  young  Geraldine  Farrar — she  was 
cutting  an  artistic  swath  in  Berlin.  Yet  none  was  so 
brilliant,  he  thought,  so  promising,  as  his  beloved 
Easter.  Beloved?  The  word  was  the  father  to  his 
wish.  Easter  had  never  appeared  to  him  in  such 
alluring  shapes.  Beautiful  girl,  great  singer — and  then 
her  sex  suddenly  swam  before  him  and  he  literally  saw 
crimson.  His  enforced  chastity  was  telling  adversely 
on  his  sanguine  temperament.  Be  virtuous  and  you'll 
be  bilious!  He  sourly  quoted  to  himself.  If  this  thing 
keeps  on  I'll  be  forced  to  ring  up  Dora.  .  .  He 
hurriedly  dressed  and  went  to  his  club. 


IV 

A  red  touring-car,  latest  model,  stopped  before 
Madame  Ash's  house.  A  tall  woman  alighted  and  rang 
the  bell.  Eloise  answered  and  could  only  gasp:  "Miss 
Easter!  Madame  will  be  so  surprised."  Easter 
grasped  the  faithful  girl's  hand  and  shook  it  in  man-like 
fashion.  Her  democratic  ways  were  not  the  least  of 
her  endearing  qualities.  A  pupil  was  singing,  but 


254  PAINTED  VEILS 

Easter  strode  in  and  heartily  kissing  her  teacher  she 
exclaimed:  "You  darling,  how  glad  I'm  to  see  you!" 
Madame  Ash,  who  couldn't  be  startled  by  an  earth 
quake,  was  nevertheless,  surprised.  "You,  Easter! 
And  what  are  you  going  to  do  in  New  York?" 

"I'm  going  to  raise  hell!"  she  crisply  announced. 
Madame  nodded  approvingly.  "You  will,  no  doubt 
about  that,  and  no  doubt  as  to  your  nationality — 
you're  Yankee  all  right."  She  dismissed  her  pupil  and 
ordered  tea  in  the  drawing-room.  Such  visitors  did 
not  come  every  day.  She  found  Easter  handsomer, 
more  self-possessed,  also  more  imperious  in  her  manner. 
The  girl  had  become  woman.  Her  beauty  positively 
dazzled.  It  was  her  health  that  contributed  to  this 
initial  impression.  Madame  Ash  interrogated  her  as 
to  her  lessons.  With  the  accustomed  forgetfulness  of 
youthful  prima-donnas  Easter  waved  away  the  sub 
ject:  nor  would  she  sing.  "Wait!  You  will  soon  have 
a  chance  to  judge  in  public."  Then  she  exploded  her 
bombshell.  "I  open  the  season  at  the  Metropolitan. 
Think  of  it  dear  Madame  Frida,  I'll  sing  Isolde  to 
Jean's  Tristan."  That  was  another  surprise.  And  not 
a  line  in  the  newspapers.  \Vhy  hadn't  Alfred  told 
her?  "Because  he  doesn't  know,"  answered  Easter. 
"Not  a  soul  knows.  I  dodged  the  reporters  this  morn 
ing.  Paul — Mr.  Godard — you  remember  him! — What 
a  friend  he  has  been  to  me — that  scrape  at  Munich,  I 
mean — He  took  me  down  to  Italy  and  I'm  glad  it  was 
Paul  and  not  that  little  fiddling  Prince  Ludwig — well, 


PAINTED  VEILS  255 

Frida,  I've  seen  some  life — I  must  be  going.  Tell 
Alfred  to  come  to  the  Waldorf.  I'm  there  for  a  day  or 
two.  And  tell  him  the  contract  was  made  by  cable. 
It's  the  fault  of  the  management  if  he  wasn't  informed. 
It  will  be  in  the  papers  tomorrow  morning.  Go  to  the 
window  and  look  at  my  new  car — nice  present,  isn't  it! 
It  came  to  the  dock  to  meet  us."  She  stopped  for 
breath. 

"So  Mister  Paul  came  across  with  you,  did  he?" 

"The  regulation  trio,"  laughed  Easter.  "A  maid,  a 
poodle,  a  lover.  The  inevitable  .  .  ."  Madame 
saw  her  get  into  the  car,  and  fancied  she  also  saw  a 
man.  Waving  her  hand  Easter  disappeared.  "£a  y 
est!"  said  Madame.  The  lesson  was  resumed.  Do, 
re,  mi,  fa,  sol,  la,  si,  do! 

When  Easter  rushed  into  his  music-room,  followed 
by  Madame  Felice,  the  legs  of  Ulick  trembled.  It 
was  more  than  a  surprise,  it  was  a  shock  in  the  nature 
of  hallucination.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  ten 
derly  kissed  her,  ejaculating:  "Easter,  Easter,  it  can't 
be  you!  It's  a  dream!"  She,  too,  was  affected;  she 
returned  his  kisses,  and  with  more  fervour.  "Good  old 
Jewel.  I've  come  back  to  you,  haven't  I  Madame?" 
But  Madame  had  vanished,  no  doubt  wondering  over 
the  versatility  of  young  Americans.  She  had  not  for 
gotten  Mona.  But  she  was  fond  of  Easter,  and  admired 
her,  particularly  after  her  newspaper  notoriety. 

The  chums  had  a  thousand  things  to  say.  Ulick 
did  not  disguise  his  affection.  He  hugged  her  till  she 


256  PAINTED  VEILS 

broke  away,  advising  prudence.  "The  same  crazy 
Jewel,"  she  said,  as  she  tidied  her  hair.  He  was  dis 
appointed.  Were  they  never  to  begin  again?  he  asked. 
"Surely,"  she  answered,  and  mischievously  added:  "If 
we  ever  really  began."  Another  scene  ensued.  He 
pursued  her  from  the  bedroom  to  the  bathroom,  and 
back  again  into  the  music-room.  There  she  stopped 
and  seizing  him  by  the  wrists  with  the  grip  of  a  giantess 
— he  carried  black  and  blue  marks  for  a  week — she 
bade  him  stop  his  nonsense.  Some  other  day!  Be 
sides,  she  hadn't  come  to  see  him  for  such  things. 
"Why,"  she  blurted  out  with  her  accustomed  brutal 
frankness,  "why  I  believe  you  are  overtrained,  Jewel. 
Have  you  been  saving  up  for  me  during  these  years?" 
Ulick  was  confused.  "A  little  bird  wrote  me  that 
there  were  two  girls  while  I  was  away,  quoi  done,  mon 
cher!"  (Damn  Alfred!  thought  Ulick.)  "But  I  must 
be  going.  Doesn't  Alfred  dine  here  any  more?  I  want 
to  see  him  badly.  He  must  look  after  me  the  night  of 
my  debut." 

"The  night  of  your  debut?"  "Yes,  didn't  I  tell  you? 
I  sing  Isolde  the  first  night  next  month  at  the  Metro 
politan."  Ulick's  eyes  opened  wide.  "Does  Alfred 
know  the  news?"  "No,  and  I  fancy  he  will  be  wrathy. 
I  can't  help  it.  The  offer  came.  It  was  so  big  that  I 
chucked  Berlin,  Paris,  London  and  took  the  first 
steamer  leaving  Genoa.  Paul  said —  "Paul?"  .  .  . 

"Why  not?  Paul — he  came  over  with  us.  He  has 
been  a  true  friend.  He's  waiting  outside  now  in  my 


PAINTED  VEILS  257 

car."  "He's  waiting  outside  now,"  echoed  the  dazed 
young  man.  "Don't  be  stupid,  Jewel.  He  and  Allie 
are  together,  otherwise  I  shouldn't  have  stayed  so  long 
with  you."  "Oh!  Allie,  too,"  he  sarcastically  observed. 
"Yes,  Allie  Wentworth,  too.  That  girl  helped  me  over 
some  rough  places  in  Europe.  I  shall  never  give  her 
up,  never,"  Easter  reiterated  with  passion.  "Was  she 
the  cause  of  the  duel?"  "Honestly,  Jewel,  living  in  this 
provincial  town  has  made  you  lose  your  Parisian  wits. 
There  was  no  duel.  That  story  was  pure  blague.  I 
had  a  fencing  match  with  Mary  Garden  and  a  reporter 
from  the  'Figaro'  was  there.  I  filled  him  full  of  prunes 
— that's  all."  She  laughed  with  the  robust  ventral 
laughter  of  a  country  girl.  She  was  the  same  old 
Easter,  and  Ulick  adored  her  for  her  natural  manner. 

But  he  pretended  that  he  did  not  understand.  "What 
did  you  and  Mary  row  about?"  "Oh!  Debussy.  She 
thinks  him  so  extraordinary.  I  don't.  No  climax,  all 
pretty  nuance,  not  a  virile  bar  in  him.  A  composer 
who  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  of  Tristan.  But  after 
Wagner  he  is  like  absinthe  after  brandy.  I  like  the 
big,  passionate  style.  I  like  Rodin.  I  adore  D'Annun- 
zio.  Debussy  is  for  artistic  capons,  and  other  fearful 
fowl.  But  Mary  is  wonderful.  •  I  envy  her  all  the  same. 
I  love  sumptuous  characters.  That's  why  I  like  to 
read  Mile  de  Maupin  and  also  about  that  perverse 
puss,  Satin,  in  Nana.  She  reminds  me  of  Allie,  and 
her  pranks — simply  adorable,  I  tell  you.  Tou jours 
fidele.  But  great  God,  look  at  the  hour!  Good-bye, 


258  PAINTED  VEILS 

for  the  present,  Jewel.  No,  don't  come  to  the  door:  I'll 
have  a  hard  enough  time  explaining  to  those  people — 
they  hate  each  other  as  do  cats  and  dogs.  Don't 
forget  your  old  sweetheart,  Jewel,"  and  she  patted 
his  cheek  as  if  he  were  a  schoolboy.  He  could  have 
killed  her.  She  fled  the  apartment.  But  she  hadn't 
said  a  word  about  the  Munich  elopement  or  the  royal 
lover. 


VI 

Alfred  exploded  some  nasty  phrases  when  he  heard  of 
Easter's  debut.  Close  as  he  was  to  the  Opera  direction 
not  a  word  had  been  hinted.  As  a  newspaper  man  he 
revolted.  He  wanted  the  "scoop"  for  the  "Clarion." 
No  one  got  it;  the  news  was  ladled  out  to  ah1,  a  regular 
soup-kitchen  affair.  He  determined  to  get  even  with 
someone,  with  Easter  herself.  He  had  lost  heavily 
that  afternoon  on  the  races,  and  it  demanded  all 
Madame  Ash's  tact  to  smooth  his  outraged  vanity  and 
feathers.  But  she  did  it.  She  promised  to  sit  beside 
him  that  first  night.  Perhaps  Easter  wouldn't  carry 
off  everything  with  such  a  high  hand  as  in  Germany 
.  .  .  and  there  was  always  Jean  de  Reszke,  not  to 
drag  in  Edouard,  who  must  be  counted  .  .  .  except 
Lilli,  what  Isolde  had  ever  divided  the  interest  of 
the  audience?  Jean  was  peerless.  Poor  Easter  had  a 
rocky  road  ahead.  .  .  Alfred's  eyes  glistened  with 
malice. 


PAINTED  VEILS  259 

The  Great  White  Way,  pleasure-ground  of  America, 
is  the  incandescent  oven  of  the  metropolis.  Under  its 
fierce  glare  all  felines  appear  alike.  But  gray,  never. 
Alfred,  who  had  lived  in  Europe,  noted  that  the  sad- 
colored  procession  that  slowly  moves  around  Piccadilly 
Circus,  the  merry  crush  of  the  Friedrichstrasse, 
and  the  gayer  swirl  of  the  Grand  Boulevard,  was 
not  so  cosmopolitan  as  Broadway's  army.  Every 
nationality  helps  to  swell  the  stream  of  petticoeats. 
Lo!  this  is  the  City  of  Dis,  he  thought,  when 
he  saw  the  maelstrom  of  faces  pass  him;  faces  blanched 
by  regret,  sunned  by  crime,  beaming  with  sin;  faces 
rusted  by  vain  virtue,  weary  faces,  and  the  trium 
phant  regard  of  them  that  are  loved.  The  eyes, 
the  eyes!  The  city  had  begun  its  nocturnal 
carnival  as  he  went  down  to  the  Opera  House, 
and  like  all  organized  orgies  the  spectacle  was 
of  a  consuming  melancholy.  No  need  for  him  to 
moralize;  cause  and  effect  spoke  with  an  appalling 
clarity.  If  Matthew  Arnold  had  been  there  he  would 
have  called  Gotham,  not  Lutetia,  the  spot  where  is 
most  worshipped  the  Great  Goddess  of  Lubricity. 
Through  this  volcano  of  noise,  a  sinister  medley  of 
farce  and  flame,  the  Will-to-Enjoy  wound  like  a  river 
of  red-hot  lava.  The  day-birds  are  gone  to  bed; 
night-fowl  are  afield.  The  owl  is  a  denizen  of  the  dark, 
yet  Minerva's  wisdom  is  not  to  be  found.  Even  the 
cats  are  bathed  in  the  blaze  of  publicity.  Alfred 
reached  the  Metropolitan.  .  . 


260  PAINTED  VEILS 

All  operatic  triumphs  resemble  each  other;  it  is 
the  failures  that  differ.  The  debut  of  Istar — how  that 
exotic  name  did  boldly  stand  out  on  the  bill-boards! — 
was  like  the  debut  of  the  pre-elected.  From  the  rising 
of  the  curtain  when  she  hurls  her  angry  disdainful: 
"Wer  wagt  mich  zu  hohnen?"  her  success  was  assured. 
In  the  first  entr'acte  Madame  Ash  said  to  Alfred :  "That 
settles  it."  He  didn't  quite  agree  with  her.  He  went 
to  Easter's  dressing-room.  He  was  not  admitted.  It 
looked  as  if  she  intended  to  burn  behind  her  all  her 
boats  and  bridges;  but  a  few  words  from  Jean,  always 
considerate  to  debutantes,  confirmed  Madame  Ash's 
judgment.  At  the  dress-rehearsal  Easter  had  been 
rotten.  That,  averred  Jean,  was  sure  sign  of  success. 
And  it  was  a  brilliant  success.  This  audacious  Ameri 
can  girl  came,  sang,  conquered.  She  actually  divided 
honors  with  Tristan.  After  the  last  curtain  she  re 
ceived  an  unmistakable  personal  call.  It  was  for  her 
alone  and  Jean  graciously  left  the  field  free.  As  cool 
as  usual  she  made  a  little  speech: 

"Thank  you,  dear  people.  Thank  you  for  your  in 
dulgence.  It  is  my  debut  in  my  beloved  land.  I  am 
an  American-born  girl.  My  first  teacher,  and  my  best, 
was  my  mother.  .  ."  The  audience  received  this 
filial  sentiment  with  overwhelming  applause.  "Does 
that  young  lady  know  the  ropes?"  ironically  inquired 
Alfred.  "Mother  first  and  best  teacher! — that's  the 
stuff  to  put  over  for  the  sentimental  imbeciles.  And 
isn't  she  grateful?  Not  a  word  about  you — not  a  word 


PAINTED  VEILS  261 

about  Lilli  or  Cosima — that  girl  has  won  out  in  a 
Swalk,"  he  added.  As  they  pushed  through  the  guzzing 
throng — Max  Hirsh  told  them  that  the  gate-money 
was  bigger  than  at  any  other  opening  night  for  seasons — 
they  heard  nothing  but  praise.  It  was  Istar  here, 
Istar  there,  everywhere  Istar!  The  sound  of  the 
exotic  name  seemed  to  hypnotize  the  mob.  Madame 
Ash  smiled: 

"Are  you  green  enough  to  expect  gratitude  from  a 
singer?  I  think  the  'mother'  allusion  was  a  master 
stroke.  Esther  is  a  genius." 


VII 

Happy  singers,  like  happy  nations,  have  no  history. 
Easter  was  a  happy  singer,  but  she  had  plenty  of  his 
tories,  though  they  would  never  be  engraved  on  death 
less  tablets.  Volition  being  her  strongest  asset,  and 
pleasure-loving  her  weakness,  she  spent  her  nights 
singing,  her  days  trifling.  She  called  it  happiness,  a 
reaction  from  the  passionate  tension  of  interpreting 
Isolde,  Brunnhilde,  Kundry,  Norma  for  the  delight  of 
huge  audiences.  The  morning  saw  her  briskly  walking 
through  the  park.  Her  apartment  was  on  Central  Park 
West,  near  72nd  Street.  Her  robust  physique  daily 
demanded  many  cubic  feet  of  fresh  air.  In  the  after 
noon  she  rode  about  in  her  car;  there  now  were  two  at 
her  service,  one,  an  electric  brougham  for  the  city  visits, 
the  shops.  She  was  fairly  prudent  in  diet,  though  she 


262  PAINTED  VEILS 

drank  too  much  champagne,  smoked  too  many  ciga 
rettes.  Punctual  at  rehearsals,  she  was  out  of  bed 
earlier  on  those  days.  So  the  opera  didn't  interfere  with 
hygiene.  An  admirable  artiste,  and  with  the  moral 
sense  to  be  observed  in  a  barnyard. 

Paul  was  the  present  incumbent  in  her  House  of  Life. 
His  wealth,  social  position,  above  all,  his  amiable  per 
sonality,  fitted  her  like  a  glove.  Easter  disliked  broils 
or  bother.  After  the  tragic  happenings  of  her  nightly 
work,  the  very  sight  of  a  lover  pulling  a  long  face,  ex 
asperated  her.  Ulick  drove  her  into  fits  of  rage  with 
his  importunings,  his  complaints  that  she  wasn't 
treating  him  on  the  level.  "Very  well,"  she  would 
retort,  "I'm  not.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it? 
You  know  what  Paul  is,  and  what  I  think  of  him.  I'm 
fond  of  you,  Jewel,  but  Paul  pleases  me  more.  He  has 
tact.  He  lets  me  alone.  I'm  quite  sure  if  he  had  been 
mixed  up  in  that  horrid  mess  up  in  New  Hampshire — 
where  was  it  anyhow? — he  wouldn't  consider  it  any 
claim  on  me.  I  don't.  But  you  do — yes,  you  do,  Ulick 
Invern.  You  seem  to  think  that  you  are  a  sort  of  a 
guardian,  a  lover,  perhaps  a  husband" — she  laughed. 
The  idea  of  a  husband  having  any  authority  over  her 
tickled  her  rib  risible.  Ulick  gloomed.  What  could  he 
say  or  do  in  face  of  such  barbed-wire  opposition?  The 
only  thing  he  achieved  was  to  neglect,  and  grossly, 
Mona  Milton.  He  discontinued  his  visits,  if  not  alto 
gether,  at  least  spaced  them  at  wide  intervals.  Mona 
did  not  complain.  Occasionally  she  went  to  luncheon 


PAINTED  VEILS  263 

with  him  at  Martin's.  The  opera  and  Easter  tempted 
her  curiosity.  At  first  the  sheer  vitality  of  the  glorious 
singing  woman  repelled  her,  but  she,  too,  was  eventu 
ally  trapped.  The  first  act  of  Tristan  and  the  swan 
song  of  Isolde  stirred  her  very  entrails.  It  was  con 
ceded,  however,  by  the  cognoscenti  that  Istar's  second 
act  lacked  the  exquisite  tenderness  of  Olive  Fremstad — 
she  had  arrived — whose  Sieglinde  was  a  masterly  expo 
sition  of  the  pitiful,  charming  woodland  creature.  But 
in  the  Immolation  Scene  of  the  Twilight  of  the  Gods 
Istar  trod  dramatic  heights.  That  chronic  fault 
finder,  Alfred  Stone,  confessed  that  since  Lilli  Lehmann 
and  Milka  Ternina,  no  one  had  so  touched  him. 
Materna  and  the  earlier  Wagnerian  singers  were  only 
bawlers  in  comparison.  But  Istar — ! 

When  he  heard  from  her  lips  the  terms  that  she  had 
imposed  on  the  management  without  singing  a  note  in 
advance,  he  threw  up  his  hands.  "In  the  heart  of  every 
prima-donna  there  is  a  pawnbroker,"  he  asserted,  and 
the  mot  rapidly  gained  currency.  Easter  only  smiled. 
She  liked  Alfred.  He  was  the  first  man  who  had  been 
kind  to  her  in  the  big  city  that  depressing  night  of  her 
arrival.  And  he  had  stood  by  her  at  the  premiere; 
to  be  sure,  he  couldn't  have  done  anything  else  without 
stultifying  his  critical  powers.  She  was  not  ungrateful, 
but  that  was  a  secret.  Her  triumph  had  been  authentic. 
No  preliminary  blasts  of  advertising  trumpets.  Philip 
Hale,  who  came  over  from  Boston  for  the  event,  had 
summed  up  the  situation  when  wiring  to  his  newspaper 


264  PAINTED  VEILS 

"When  Istar  sings  she  is  her  own  passionate  press- 
agent."  Edgar  Saltus  compressed  it  in  an  epigram: 
"Istar  may  be  a  Daughter  of  Sin,  but  she  has  no  vocal 
vices."  It  was  all  true. 

For  Mona  the  singer  presently  became  an  obsession. 
She  concealed  her  feelings  concerning  the  palpable 
defection  of  Ulick.  She  was  as  cordial  as  ever  in  her 
conduct  toward  him,  but  she  no  longer  spoke  of  their 
dream-children.  Grane  and  Shamus  had  died  the 
swift  death  of  all  poetic  conceptions  confronted 
by  harsh  reality.  Her  love  for  him  seemed  diverted  to 
Easter.  As  the  lustre  of  an  electric  lamp  attracts  the 
night-moth  so  the  glittering  personality  and  fame  of 
the  prima-donna  drew  within  its  warm  zone  the  feebler 
will  of  Mona.  The  two  girls  became  close  companions. 
With  growing  disquietude  Ulick  noticed  this;  but  he 
was  powerless.  He  had  kept  to  himself  his  early 
adventure  with  Easter.  And  Easter  had  never  heard 
from  him  a  hint  of  his  relations  with  Mona.  Yet  he 
was  certain  that  if  she  didn't  precisely  know  the  facts 
she  surmised  them.  She  would  fix  her  brilliant  eyes 
on  the  girl  and  Mona,  blushing,  would  hang  her  head. 
How  much  did  Easter  know?  How  much  had  Alfred 
told  her?  He  was  a  gossip,  a  tattler  of  mean  tales,  an 
amateur  in  the  art  of  scandalous  insinuation.  Never 
theless,  the  others  were  pleased  when  he  appeared.  He 
saw  more  clearly  than  any  of  them,  and  he  had  the 
disagreeable  gift  qf  telling  truths.  It  was  a  wonder  he 
maintained  his  unpopularity. 


PAINTED  VEILS  265 

.  .  .  One  sunny  afternoon  in  midwinter  they 
went  to  the  old  Vienna  Cafe  next  to  Grace  Church  to 
drink  coffee  and  chatter  about  eternity  and  the  town- 
pump.  It  was  Alfred's  beloved  stamping-ground.  The 
white  suavities  of  Grace  Church,  the  twist  of  the  street 
where  Broadway  debouches  into  Union  Square, 
aroused  in  him  the  fancy  that  in  no  other  spot  of  the 
planet  is  the  tempo  of  living  faster,  or  any  place  where 
the  human  pulse  beats  more  quickly.  The  tumults 
and  alarums  of  the  day  are  more  exciting  than  a  Cycle 
in  Cathay.  Vitality  is  at  its  hottest.  We  are  like  a 
colony  of  ants  disturbed  by  a  stranger,  he  ruminated. 
We  are  caught  in  eddies  and  whirlpools;  and  on  the 
edges  of  foaming  breakers  we  are  dumped  upon  densely 
populated  sands.  Childe  Roland,  if  he  came  to  New 
York,  would  not  be  heard,  so  many  other  knights  are 
blowing  their  horns;  besides,  he  might  be  puzzled  to 
find  his  eagerly  sought-for  Dark  Tower.  Our  surfaces 
are  hard,  boastful,  the  rhythms  of  our  daily  life  abrupt, 
over-emphatic.  There  are  few  timid  backwaters  left 
for  sensitive  folk  who  dislike  the  glare  and  rumble  of 
modern  traffic.  We  appear  to  be  making  some  unknown 
goal,  as  in  the  streets  we  seem  to  be  running  to  a  fire  or  a 
fight  that  we  never  reach.  Alternately  hypnotic  and  re- 
pellant,  New  York  is  often  a  more  stony-hearted  step 
mother  than  the  Oxford  street  of  De  Quincey.  Alfred 
admitted  to  himself  that  our  city  would  not  be  con 
sidered  beautiful  in  the  old  order  of  aesthetics.  Its 
specific  beauty  savours  of  the  monstrous.  The  scale 


266  PAINTED  VEILS 

is  epical.  Too  many  buildings  are  glorified  chimneys . 
But  what  a  picture  of  titanic  energy,  of  cyclopean 
ambition!  Look  over  Manhattan  from  Washington 
Heights.  The  wilderness  of  flat  roofs  in  London;  the 
winning  profile  of  Paris;  the  fascination  of  Rome  as 
viewed  from  Trinata  dei  Monti;  of  Buda  from  across 
the  Danube  at  Pest — those  are  not  more  startlingly 
dramatic  than  New  York,  especially  when  the  cham 
bers  of  the  west  are  filled  with  the  tremendous  opal  of 
a  dying  day,  or  when  the  lyric  moonrise  paves  a  path 
of  silver  across  the  hospitable  sea  we  call  our  harbour. 
With  all  his  ingrained  hostility  to  America  and  things 
American  (he  despised  the  uncouth  Bartholdi  statue 
as  an  emblem  of  liberty,  saying  that  its  torch  was  in 
reality  a  threatening  club:  "Get  to  work,"  it  com 
manded)  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge  the  supremacy 
of  New  York.  Two  European  cities  only  were  more 
dramatic;  Toledo,  Prague.  And  during  a  summer 
sunrise  the  reverberations  of  our  parent-planet,  of  that 
blazing  white  disk  which  made  the  sky  a  metallic  blue, 
evokes  Africa,  rather  than  Italy;  Enfin — the  true 
firmament  of  North  America. 

Easter  and  Mona,  escorted  by  Paul  and  Ulick,  en 
tered.  They  were  in  high  spirits.  They  surrounded 
Alfred,  forcing  him  to  drop  his  newspaper.  The 
habitues  were  sipping  coffee  and  playing  chess.  Some 
were  celebrities.  Alfred  named  them.  One  and  all  they 
stared  at  the  singer.  Several  came  over  to  the  table 
and  paid  then*  way  with  extravagant  compliments. 


PAINTED  VEILS  267 

She  took  all  without  a  trace  of  the  pose  of  the  pampered 
prima-donna.  It  was  her  due.  It  was  also  in  the  day's 
work.  When  the  others  had  gone,  the  party  fell  to 
arguing.  A  chance  word  of  Ulick's  had  sent  Easter  up 
into  the  air.  What!  if  women  were  such  cowardly 
cows,  the  slaves  of  their  husbands,  and  their  dress 
makers,  the  dupes  of  their  lovers  and  children,  was  that 
sufficient  reason  why  a  level-headed  woman  should 
follow  the  call  of  these  sheep!  A  woman  should  listen 
to  her  inward  promptings.  Easter  said  she  didn't  pro 
pose  to  be  a  shop-girl  trying  to  live  on  the  wage  doled 
her  by  some  self-advertising  philanthropists — she  gave 
a  list  that  jarred  Alfred's  cynicism — those  humbugs 
who  drove  thousands  of  girls  into  the  ranks  of  prosti 
tutes.  Supposing,  she  continued,  I  had  no  voice,  only 
my  looks,  what  then!  The  stage,  of  course.  What 
matters  envious  backbiting.  A  nun  immured  doesn't 
escape  calumny.  Hamlet  knew.  A  girl  who  had  an 
ounce  of  beauty  or  brains,  practical  brains,  not  moon 
shine  rhapsody,  can  always  make  her  way.  Marry,  for 
sooth!  And  beget  a  lot  of  brats  for  some  cheap  clerk, 
who  stints  her  expenses!  Pooh!  Short-lived  as  is  the 
good  time  of  a  cocotte  despite  her  inevitable  chance  of 
poverty  and  disease,  isn't  her  existence  in  a  show-down 
about  as  useful,  or  as  useless?  That  depends  on  the 
angle  of  moral  incidence — or  the  chill,  gray  life  of  a 
servant,  a  factory  worker,  or  the  wife  of  a  workman, 
with  the  horrors  of  frequent  childbearing,  the  hideous 
drunkenness,  abuse  and  grinding  poverty?  Many  a  girl 


268  PAINTED  VEILS 

has  remained  virtuous  because  she  was  too  plain  to  be 
tempted. 

"You  sweet  duckling!"  she  exclaimed  turning  to 
Mona  and  embracing  her  energetically,  "what  will  you 
ever  know  of  the  submerged  lives  about  you?  You  were 
reared  in  cotton-wool  and  have  been  spared  the  sight 
of  such  agonizing."  Mona  shivered,  and  timidly  re 
turned  the  embrace.  The  three  young  men  exchanged 
glances.  Suddenly  Easter  took  a  new  tack.  "Jewel," 
she  said  meditatively  regarding  him,  "Jewel,  why  don't 
you  write  a  novel?"  "Good  heavens,  old  girl,  I  have 
hardly  the  energy  to  pencil  my  allotted  newspaper 
paragraphs.  Novels  nowadays  mean  either  the  naked 
truth  and  that  spells  disaster,  or  slimy  sensual  senti 
mentality.  Your  heroine  to  make  an  impression,  must 
resist  seduction,  though  longing  for  carnal  satisfaction; 
or,  if  she  happens  to  be  a  professional  prostitute — 
led  from  the  sloppy  paths  of  a  still  sloppier  virtue  when 
very  young — then  she  must  be  converted  in  the  lime 
light  to  the  sound  of  pharasaical  trumpets.  The  chief 
thing  is  to  combine  voluptuous  description  with  hypo 
critical  repentance.  To  dissect  the  sex  emotions  calmly 
is  the  one  unforgivable  offence.  Foam  at  the  mouth, 
you  may,  in  presenting  the  details  of  nymphomania  or 
satyriasis,  if  you  only  piously  turn  up  your  eyes  at  the 
close.  Sex  is  as  sane,  as  clean  as  any  other  physical 
function;  in  fact,  it's  cleaner.  Eating,  drinking,  and 
digestion  are  not  particularly  attractive.  Fornication, 
conception,  child-bearing  are  natural.  Treat  them 


PAINTED  VEILS  269 

naturally.  Don't  slop  over  them.  Don't  tell  about 
blasted  lives,  blackened  souls,  because  your  heroine 
assumes  a  horizontal  attitude  and  sees  the  moon  over 
the  shoulder  of  her  lover.  Don't  gasbag  about  sin, 
when  the  sexual  act  is  no  more  sinful  than  eating. 
Good  God!  how  long  are  the  emasculated  ideals  of 
ancient  Asiatic  fanatics  to  check  the  free  exercise  of  a 
woman's  nature?  Calling  a  natural  process  like  copula 
tion  a  sin  doesn't  make  it  so.  I  am  a  feminist,  as  you 
girls  know,  but  I  don't  give  a  rap  for  the  suffrage  if  it 
doesn't  free  woman  from  her  sexual  slavery.  If  a  man 
can  run  around,  having  a  good  time,  and  not  be  re 
proached  with  his  loose-living,  why,  by  the  same  token, 
can't  a  woman?"  He  was  unusually  animated. 

"Bravo  Ulick!"  cried  Easter.  Mona  shivered  again. 
She  knew.  Paul  giggled;  when  in  doubt  he  always 
giggled,  but  he  was  thoroughly  shocked  by  Ulick's  banal 
defence  of  immorality.  Alfred  shook  his  head;  he,  too, 
knew  the  mainspring  of  this  verbiage.  "Ulick,  my  lad, 
you  write  your  novels  in  the  air.  You  will  never  publish 
one.  You  are  'veule'  as  they  in  your  beloved  language 
and  'veule'  means  something  more  than  soft  or  weak. 
The  truth  is — "  "Alfred  and  his  truths,"  sniffed  Easter 
— "is  Ulick,  you  are  rotten,  morally  rotten.  Even  your 
not  drinking  or  smoking  is  only  cowardice.  Back  to 
the  boulevards  for  you!" 

"Besides,"  pursued  Alfred,  thoroughly  aroused,  "isn't 
it  time  to  give  literature  a  breathing-spell  from  this 
infernal  sex-humbuggery?  Today  everything  is 


270  PAINTED  VEILS 

referred  to  sex,  from  religion  to  dreams.  Childhood  is 
trapped  by  psychiatrists  searching  for  sex-documents. 
And,  then,  doesn't  all  this  interest  in  a  woman's  chastity 
sicken  you?  It  makes  me  think  that  men  are  still 
Turks  buying  female  flesh  by  weight.  It's  simply 
disgusting,  that's  what  it  is.  Why  not  her  liver  or  her 
lungs!  I'd  as  soon  ask  if  a  woman  were  constipated 
as  ask  if  she  were  chaste.  The  world  is  hag-ridden  by 
sexuality.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  with  their  'new 
freedom',  as  they  call  it,  women  are  becoming  more 
polyandrous.  They,  too,  needs  must  have  a  staff  of 
males  for  their  individuality !  Music  is  to  blame  a  lot, 
Wagner's  music  in  particular.  What  else  is  Tristan 
and  Isolde  but  a  tonal  orgasm?  Think  of  the  Prelude — 
never  mind  the  love-music  in  Act  II.  That  is  avowedly 
voluptuous,  as  it  should  be — but  just  see  with  what 
savant  art  Wagner  has  built  up  from  the  sighing, 
yearning  bars  at  the  opening  of  the  Prelude  a  perfect 
chart,  dynamic,  emotional,  evoking  physical  images; 
then  developing  a  crescendo  without  parallel  in  music 
the  climax  subsiding  into  a  melancholy  close  like  two 
felines  caterwauling  on  a  back  fence.  Musical  erethism, 
I  tell  you.  .  ." 

Easter's  eyes  snapped.  "Disgusting,  Alfred.  I 
fancy  you  prefer  the  parsiphallic  repulse  of  Kundry, 
when  Wagner  had  become  antinatural,  denying  woman 
hood,  thanks  to  his  epicene  patron,  crazy  King  Ludwig 
of  Bavaria."  Alfred  sniggered.  Ulick  never  moved  a 
muscle.  It  was  vieux  jeu,  this  lecturing  from  Alfred; 


PAINTED  VEILS  271 

at  least  it  didn't  stir  him  to  the  depths  as  did  the  burn 
ing  phrases  of  Milt.  "I'd  like  to  meet  your  brother, 
Mona,  if  he  is  anything  like  you."  "He  isn't,  Istar," 
she  replied,  "he  has  a  beautiful  nature,  pure  as  the 
stars."  "Listen  to  her.  You  might  suppose,  Mona, 
that  you  were  leading,  or  had  led — "  Easter  signifi 
cantly  paused — "a  wicked  life.  You  fast !  Oh !  As  for 
your  beautiful  souls !  Pooh!  Men  are  all  alike !  Beasts! 
The  soutane  checks,  no  doubt;  but  I  shouldn't  like 
to  tempt  your  brother  too  far."  She  became  reflective. 
The  men  were  uneasy.  Where  was  all  this  vain  talk 
leading  to?  Easter  exploded  another  little  bombshell. 
"I  repeat,  I'd  like  to  meet  your  brother  some  time, 
Mona."  The  other  girl  nodded.  "What's  become  of 
Dora  that  Paul  used  to  rave  over,  or  was  it  you,  Jewel?" 
"Oh,  by  Jove,  I  say,"  remonstrated  Paul.  "For  God's 
sake,  if  we  are  going  to  discuss  brothels  I'm  off,"  said 
Alfred,  and  he  left  in  a  huff.  The  party  broke  up. 

Easter  often  went  to  concerts  with  Ulick.  One 
afternoon,  after  a  performance  of  Vincent  D'Indy's 
masterpiece,  "Istar"  she  told  Ulick  that  these  Symphonic 
Variations  had  given  her  the  cue  for  her  operatic  name. 
Istar  wasn't  so  different  from  Easter.  Maliciously 
Ulick  pointed  out  the  seventh  variation  called  in  the 
critical  notes  The  Seventh  Gate.  She  read: 

"At  the  seventh  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her;  he 
took  off  the  last  veil  that  covers  her  body".  .  . 

"You  reversed  the  order  of  disrobing  with  me,  didn't 
you,  Easter?"  She  regarded  him  as  if  from  her  tallest 


272  PAINTED  VEILS 

tower  of  disdain  and  frigidly  answered:  "Don't  be  too 
sure,  Jewel.  Not  even  of  the  Holy  Yowlers  romance 
at  Zaneburg."  He  was  infuriated.  What  did  she  mean? 
And  how  well  she  remembered  names,  when  she  wished 
to.  What  next — ? 

VIII 

There  are  limitations  to  the  endurance  of  an  unvir- 
tuous  man.  Ulick,  who  had  foresworn  further  advances 
toward  Mona,  began  his  aimless  cruising  about  town  in 
pursuit  of  complaisant  women.  He  found  plenty,  yet 
he  remained  unsatisfied;  mercenary  love  repelled  him. 
The  cocottes  of  the  metropolis  were  mournful  substi 
tutes  after  the  light-hearted  irresponsible  "filles  de  joie" 
of  Paris.  In  that  City  of  Light  prostitution  is  elevated 
to  the  dignity  of  Fine  Art.  He  began  thinking  of 
Dora,  dear  little  vulgar  Dora;  vulgar,  but  also  delicious 
Dora.  Her  body  was  like  a  white  satin  stove.  Doubt 
less  there  had  been  many  applications  to  fill  the  niche 
occupied  by  Paul;  doubtless,  too,  she  had  put  him  out 
of  her  memory  as  one  of  her  sheep  that  had  strayed 
from  the  fold.  The  pathos  of  passion  operating,  he  saw 
a  idealized  Dora;  Dora  the  sweet  accomplice  in  the 
eternal  chess-play  of  sex;  a  Dora,  voluptuous,  yet  a 
house-wife,  cook  and  concubine;  but  always  a  Dora  that 
interested  with  her  vivacity,  her  spurts  of  wit — original, 
vile,  yet  mirth-breeding.  Should  he,  or  should  he  not, 
phone  or  write  her?  He  decided  that  a  call  would  settle 
the  weighty  question.  For  him  it  was  weighty.  Woman 


PAINTED  VEILS  273 

was  not  only  a  diversion,  but  also  a  necessity.  He 
liked  their  propinquity.  He  could  never,  he  felt  sure, 
conceive  himself  as  Dora's  husband.  In  the  role  of 
an  agreeable  mistress — !  Ah!  that  was  another 
phase. 

So  he  leisurely  walked,  one  afternoon,  to  the  apart 
ment-house  on  upper  Lexington  Avenue,  and  soon  was 
pressing  the  button  at  her  door.  He  was  relieved  to 
find  that  her  name  was  still  there.  Migratory  birds, 
these,  and  she  was  as  restless  as  her  colleagues.  After 
a  brief  delay,  he  heard  light,  hurried  footsteps.  It  was 
the  maid,  another  coloured  girl.  She  bade  him  enter 
and  he  sent  his  name  to  her  mistress.  A  moment  later 
he  was  ushered  into  the  dining-room,  where  he  found 
Dora  playing  cards  with  an  anonymous  female  who  had 
evidently  been  drinking.  There  was  a  decanter  and 
carafe  on  the  buffet.  Dora  hardly  looked  up,  but  her 
greeting  was  cordial  enough.  "My  old  man,  Lily,  this 
is  Jewel,  my  best  lady  friend,  Lily.  Sit  down,  dearie 
and  hold  your  horses  till  we  spiel  out  this  hand.  I'm 
in  luck,  look!  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  bunch  of  cards?" 
Ulick  preserved  his  patience;  he  had  hoped  to  find 
Dora  alone.  In  default  of  that  he  made  the  best  of  the 
situation.  Finished  and  victorious,  Dora  bounded  to 
his  knees,  addressing  him  by  all  the  pet  names  she  knew. 
Her  warm,  odourous  presence — though  whisky  was 
one  of  its  components — soothed  his  irritated  vanity. 
Easter  treated  him  as  if  he  were  a  eunuch,  Dora,  as  a 
man  should  be.  He  did  not  underestimate  his  virile 


274  PAINTED  VEILS 

prowess.  It  was  recognized  in  the  Tenderloin  district 
and  more  than  one  nightbird  had  envied  Dora  the 
possession  of  her  handsome,  athletic  young  man.  She 
now  appeared  to  be  glad  of  his  return.  She  chirped: 

"You  bad  boy!  What  naughty  girl  kept  you  away 
from  me?  That  singer,  I  suppose.  Or  was  it  the  meek- 
as-Moses  girl!  There,  there,  I  shan't  begin  all  over 
again.  I  lost  my  head,  and  you  did  yours.  Honest  to 
God,  Jewel,  you  hadn't  ought  to  struck  Paul.  He  is 
a  dead- game  sport  and  a  friend  of  yours.  Shall  we 
take  a  ride  and  a  dinner  at  the  Casino?  Well,  I  guess 
yes.  Lily,  put  on  your  glad-rags.  My  old  man  is  going 
to  blow  us  off  to  a  fine  time."  Ulick  looked  his  discon 
tent,  and  Lily  diplomatically  refused,  giving  as  a  reason 
an  engagement  with  her  Fred.  Dora  passed  over  her 
defection.  She  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and  gave 
instructions  to  the  slavey — a  damfool,  she  informed  the 
company;  then  she  dressed  herself,  and  that  function 
occupied  precisely  one  hour.  Ulick  fumed.  Lily  helped 
herself  at  rhythmic  intervals  from  the  decanter  pre 
facing  each  drink  with:  "You  will  pardon  me!"  Ulick 
politely  replied  and  wished  her  in  Sheol.  Finally  they 
got  afloat,  and  that  night  he  slept  from  home. 

He  temporarily  disappeared.  Mona  noted  his  ab 
sence  but  as  she  burned  her  own  smoke,  her  parents 
made  no  comment  on  the  tepid  attentions  of  her  fiance. 
They  recognized  her  fortitude  in  adverse  circumstances, 
and  they  preferred  to  remain  neutral.  Mona  was 
apathetic  they  knew,  nevertheless  they  feared  to  arouse 


PAINTED  VEILS  275 

her  wrath  by  criticising  the  reprehensible  behaviour  of 
Ulick.  But  Easter  was  different.  After  several  weeks' 
absence  she  went  down  to  luncheon  at  Madame  Felice's. 
No  Ulick.  Nor  had  he  been  home  for  nights  and 
nights,  she  was  confidentially  informed  by  Madame. 
Yes,  he  had  been  in  at  dinner,  once;  that  was  last  week. 
He  had  Dora  as  company.  Madame  was  a  philosopher 
in  petticoats  and  one  girl  valued  another.  She  was 
extremely  fond  of  her  ci-devant  lodger,  the  illustrious 
Istar.  But  Easter  was  annoyed.  She  alone  boasted  the 
privilege  of  broken  engagements;  Paul  or  Ulick  were 
mere  pawns  to  be  pushed  about  at  her  will.  She  asked 
Madame  if  she  knew  the  address  of  Dora.  "I  have  her 
telephone  number  and  from  that  we  can  surely  get  the 
house  address  from  Central."  She  did  this.  Dora 
lived  at  "The  Sappho"  on  Lexington  Avenue.  Easter 
booked  the  number  and  thanked  Madame,  who,  natur 
ally  curious,  queried:  "Easter,  cherie,  I  hope  you  won't 
go  there.  Dora  is  charming,  mais  c'est  une  cocotte." 
"It's  not  the  charming  Dora  I'm  after,"  was  the  re 
sponse.  "I'll  catch  Master  Ulick  on  the  wire  some 
morning,  and  that's  my  little  game.  He  can't  play  fast 
and  loose  with  me  as  he  does  with  that  sweet,  unhappy 
Mona.  I'm  not  built  that  way.  With  me  it's  Either — 
Or!  as  they  say  in  some  Ibsen  play."  Madame  Felice 
lifted  eyebrows  and  smiled — inscrutably. 


276  PAINTED  VEILS 

IX 

As  Easter  rode  to  the  door,  another  car  drove  down 
Lexington  Avenue.  Dora  didn't  see  her  visitor,  but 
Ulick  did,  and  he  whispered  into  the  ear  of  his  chau 
ffeur.  The  machine  flew.  Easter  not  wasting  a  moment 
didn't  leave  her  car.  She  saw  the  couple,  and  she  bade 
her  driver  follow.  A  long  stern  chase  ensued.  The 
two  cars  kept  equal  distance  all  the  way  down-town. 
Policemen  whistled.  People  stared.  Timid  ladies 
expostulated.  Furiously  Easter's  car  pursued  the  other. 
At  Eighteenth  street  Ulick  told  his  man  to  turn  west 
ward,  to  Fourth  Avenue,  thence  to  the  old  Everett 
House  on  Union  Square.  There  was  no  sight  of  Easter. 
At  Gramercy  Park  Ulick  had  outmanouevred  Easter, 
taking  the  short  cut  into  Irving  Place,  while  Easter 
seeing  her  prey  escape  had  no  doubt  directed  her  car  to 
Fourth  Avenue  by  way  of  Twentieth  Street.  Ulick 
inwardly  exulted.  He  had  dodged  Easter,  and  he  was 
sure  that  she  was  jealous  of  him,  else  how  account  for 
this  wild,  whirling  chase!  Oblivious,  Dora  wondered 
at  the  speed  and  the  growing  excitement  of  her  beau — 
so  she  called  him.  He's  a  sport,  after  all,  she  said. 
The  car  stopped  in  front  of  the  hotel,  but,  alas,  as  it 
did,  Easter's  motor  came  into  view  around  the  corner 
of  the  Avenue.  So  timed  was  the  arrest  of  the  two  cars 
that  the  chauffeurs  grinned,  believing  the  meeting  had 
been  arranged. 

Ulick  bundled  Dora  into  the  hotel,  calling  to  the 
man  to  go  to  Broadway  ferry,  east  Fourteenth  street; 


PAINTED  VEILS  277 

then  he  fairly  pushed  Dora  through  the  lobbies,  the 
cafe,  through  the  Fourth  Avenue  door,  and,  the  girl 
scared  by  his  determined  face,  didn't  question  him. 
When  they  reached  Eighteenth  street  he  hurried  her 
along  to  Third  Avenue  and  there  he  relaxed.  "They 
were  after  us  Dora."  "Who  was?"  "The  police."  "My 
Gawd,  the  police!"  "Plain-clothes  men,"  he  senten- 
tiously  explained,  and  the  frightened  girl  almost 
collapsed.  The  police!  The  House  of  Correction,  or 
some  horrible  Magdalen  Home?  Ulick  seeing  that  she 
was  suffering  cooked  up  a  lie.  He  had  been  sued — or 
was  it  contempt  of  court? — at  any  rate,  he  had  detec 
tives  on  his  trail.  No  necessity  to  be  troubled  over  the 
incident.  He,  alone,  was  involved.  Reassured,  she 
clung  to  his  arm.  They  arrived  at  Fourteenth  Street. 
There  they  took  an  east-bound  car.  At  the  ferry  house 
the  motor  was  awaiting  them.  Ulick  drew  the  chauffeur 
aside,  gave  him  a  tip  and  asked  what  had  become  of  the 
other  car.  It  still  stood  before  the  hotel,  he  supposed. 
The  big  lady  in  it  had  leaped  out  before  it  stopped  and 
made  a  dash  after  them.  But  as  luck  would  have  it  a 
young  gentleman  detained  her  and  she  was  as  mad  as 
hops.  But  he  wouldn't  let  go  her  wrists.  "What  sort 
of  looking  young  gentleman  was  it?"  Ulick  asked.  Oh, 
clean-shaved  like  you,  sir,  and  he  wore  loud  checks  in 
his  clothes.  He  laughed  a  lot,  too,  especially  when  he 
saw  that  the  lady  was  getting  madder  and  madder. 
Phew!  She  had  a  temper,  that  beauty!  Ulick  told 


278  PAINTED  VEILS 

him  to  drive  to  Manhattan  Beach.  It  must  have  been 
Paul,  he  fancied. 

After  midnight  they  returned.  The  sea-air  had 
refreshed  them.  The  dinner  at  Jack's  had  been  excel 
lent,  and  the  roof -garden  prime-chop.  Dora  was 
drowsy.  Dora  was  affectionate.  Her  beloved  Jewel  was 
beside  her  once  more  and  she  didn't  care  if  she  did 
attract  attention  by  almost  sitting  in  his  lap.  Some  of 
her  "lady-friends",  those  sweet  girl-graduates  from  the 
University  of  Sin,  "whose  feet  took  hold  on  hell,"  had 
aroused  in  her  a  half  drunken  quarrelsome  spirit  when 
they  flirted  with  her  "fellow"  at  the  show.  But  she  had 
him  now,  he  couldn't  be  taken  from  her  by  any  woman 
alive.  She  opened  the  door  after  some  preliminary 
fumbling  with  the  key.  They  entered.  Her  French 
poodle,  which  usually  barked  with  joy  whenever  she 
came  home,  did  not  lift  up  its  voice.  Dora  was  fright 
ened.  Dodo  was  ill,  perhaps  stolen — and  O  my  Gawd! 
there's  a  light  in  the  living-room.  Burglars,  Jewel, 
let's  go  for  the  police.  But  Ulick  thought  otherwise. 
Burglars  don't  smoke  cigarettes  when  cracking  a  crib. 
It  must  be  Paul.  He  made  a  wry  face.  He  called, 
"Paulchen,  is  that  you?"  "No,  it's  Istarchen,"  came 
the  answer,  in  a  resonant  voice.  By  all  the  infernal 
gods — Easter ! 

"Well,"  screamed  Dora,  "this  is  a  surprise.  Where 
did  you  blow  in  from?  And  how  in  the  world  did  you 
break  in?  Them  hall-boys  hasn't  keys."  She  was  drunk 
enough  to  be  familiar.  She  knew  Easter  only  by  sight, 


PAINTED  VEILS  279 

but  whisky  bridged  the  gulf;  in  her  sober  senses  she 
would  have  been  too  cowed  by  Easter's  magnificent 
presence  to  have  addressed  her  thus.  Easter,  smoking  a 
cigarette,  lay  outstretched  on  a  divan.  She  smiled  in  a 
friendly  manner  at  Dora,  and  pulled  her  down  beside 
her.  To  Ulick  she  addressed  no  word.  She  gazed  at 
him,  and  sneered.  Dora  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of 
pride.  She,  poor  little  prostitute,  one  of  the  despised 
and  rejected,  living  on  the  lusts  of  men,  was  treated  not 
only  as  a  human  but  as  a  social  equal  by  the  greatest 
living  lady  opera-singer!  She  embraced  her,  and  be 
sought  her  to  drink.  Easter  thanked  her,  adding  "I've 
already  helped  myself."  She  again  challenged  Ulick 
with  her  hard  glance.  He  fell  into  a  chair  and  held  his 
peace.  The  two  women  drank  a  toast  to  "happy  days 
and  better  acquaintance"  and  Dora,  now  half-seas  over, 
supplemented  it  with  the  classic  toast  of  "professional 
ladies"  and  kept- women.  Easter  laughed  uproariously. 
Her  descent  into  this  moral  sewer  pleased  her.  Ulick 
was  disgusted.  Emboldened  by  her  success  Dora  per 
suaded  Easter  to  go  with  her  into  the  dressing-room, 
from  which,  much  later,  they  emerged  wearing  night 
draperies.  A  queer  go,  this  sudden  intimacy,  ruminated 
the  young  man. 

The  women  were  in  high  spirits,  and  high-balls  were 
absorbed.  Ulick  saw  that  Dora  was  hopeless.  The 
problem  was  how  to  get  rid  of  Easter.  Her  car  had  been 
dismissed;  no  doubt  about  that.  Curiously  he  asked: 
"But  Easter,  how  did  you  get  in  here?"  She  turned  to 


280  PAINTED  VEILS 

Dora,  now  on  the  divan,  her  drunken  eyes  admiringly 
blinking  at  the  singer.  "Dora,  dear,  where  there's  a 
will  there's  a  way.  After  I  lost  you  this  afternoon  at 
the  Everett  House" — ''Lost  me  at  the  Everett?"  gasped 
Dora.  "It's  a  new  one  on  me."  She  turned  to  Ulick 
and  fairly  snarled.  "So  that  was  your  game,  was  it,  to 
go  hell-splitting  through  the  town  and  get  rid  of  my 
darling  friend?"  She  wept.  "You  nearly  broke  my 
neck,  d'ye  know  it,  you  herring-gut!  Oh!  I  ain't  got 
any  use  for  a  young  chap  who  doesn't  drink  or  smoke. 
He's  sure  to  be  up  to  something  worse.  He'll  bear 
watching,  so  he  will!"  Easter  triumphantly  soothed  the 
hysterical  girl.  They  went  into  the  kitchen.  Soon  a 
Welsh  rabbit  was  on  the  table.  Easter  also  possessed 
culinary  technique.  Impassioned  by  her  superior 
prowess,  Dora  watched  her  with  ravished  vision.  They 
drank  again.  The  younger  girl  became  frolicksome. 
She  pulled  Ulick's  hah*.  She  tickled  him.  She  kissed 
and  hugged  Easter  as  if  she  were  carried  away  by  her 
friendship.  Easter  enjoyed  the  sport.  They  dragged 
the  unresisting  Ulick  into  the  bed-room  and  assaulted 
him  with  pillows.  They  rolled  him  on  the  bed.  Dora 
unbuttoned  his  vest.  Then  they  tumbled  over  him, 
tantalizing  him  with  their  pranks.  He  saw  that  they 
were  nude  beneath  their  house- wrappers.  Abandoning 
themselves  the  half-crazy  pair  would  stretch  on  the 
sheets  and  then  draw  up  their  legs  in  unison,  while  the 
harrassed  Ulick  viewed  with  longing  their  beautiful 
figures;  Dora,  slender  blonde,  resilient;  Easter,  bru- 


PAINTED  VEILS  281 

nette,  massive,  but  supple  as  a  snake.     He  suffered. 
With  shrieks  they  teased,  tempted,  evaded  him. 

Tiring,  the  trio  returned  to  the  dining-room.  More 
whisky.  Quite  overcome,  Dora  lolled  on  the  couch. 
She  held  Easter  closely  clutched.  Ulick  hinted  that  she 
had  better  go  to  bed.  That  aroused  her.  "Yes,  but 
not  with  you  .  .  .  my  boy."  And  she  returned  to 
Easter.  "Go  on  about  your  business,"  she  suddenly 
shrieked.  "I  hate  you.  I  hate  all  men.  You  only 
want  to  use  me."  And  then  she  fell  to  sobbing.  Easter 
motioned  toward  the  door  with  her  head.  "I  think  you 
had  better  go,"  she  calmly  counselled.  "Dora  is  over 
wrought,  hysterical,  and  doesn't  know  what  she  is 
saying  or  doing."  He  fetched  his  hat.  "That's  true," 
he  answered.  "Dora  doesn't  know  what  she  is  doing, 
but  you  do,  Easter."  She  gave  him  a  nasty  look,  in 
which  were  mingled  amusement  and  contempt.  Too 
polite  to  pelt  her  with  the  invectives  he  felt  she  deserved, 
he  contented  himself  with  saying  as  he  opened  the  door : 
"Yes,  Easter,  I  think  I  had  better  go;  go  back  to  Paris. 
It  can't  be  any  viler  there  than  here."  Jeering  laughter 
followed  him  to  the  lift. 

X 

"You  look  blue  about  the  gills,  Ulick,"  said  Milt  in 
his  heartiest  manner.  "You're  not  well  these  days,  are 
you?  What's  the  trouble?" 

"I'm  dizzy  most  of  the  time.  No,  it's  not  the  stomach 
it's  something  worse.  You  know  I  didn't  get  a  clean  bill 


282  PAINTED  VEILS 

of  health  from  my  father's  side  of  the  house.  Of  late, 
my  left  side  goes  numb  for  days  at  a  time — partial  paral 
ysis  or,  at  least,  its  prodromes."  Ulick  seemed  out  of 
sorts.  His  face  was  earth-coloured.  He  had  been  going 
the  pace  and  consequently  suffering.  Milt  stood  over 
him  and  harangued: 

"Come!  Ulick,  my  boy.  You've  got  to  stop  your 
ways  of  living  else  land  in  a  hospital,  or  worse — perhaps 
in  a  mad-house,  for  the  epileptic  spasm  you  call  love. 
You  are  bartering  your  birthright  of  soul  and  body. 
Now  listen !  Here  is  a  fair  proposition.  There  is  to  be  a 
retreat  for  men  at  our  college,  men  like  you,  weary  of 
the  world,  men  who  have  the  honesty  to  repeat  your 
favourite  Baudelaire's  prayer:  'O!  Lord  God!  Give  me 
the  force  and  courage  to  contemplate  my  heart  and 
my  body  without  disgust.'  Admirable  humility,  for 
where  you  end  Christianity  begins.  Yours  is  not  an 
exceptional  case.  The  whole  world  is  morally  out  of 
joint.  It  is  become  godless,  and  were  it  not  for  the 
saving  remnant,  God  in  His  just  wrath  would  destroy 
the  earth  as  he  destroyed  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  But 
He  leaves  the  wicked  to  their  own  devices.  A  catas 
trophe  will  surely  come  to  Europe,  perhaps  Asia  and 
America,  a  catastrophe  that  beggars  the  imagination  in 
the  contemplation  thereof.  Satan  will  be  released  from 
his  fiery  pit  and  Antichrist  will  rule  the  nations.  Pre 
sumptuous  man  has  tried  to  regulate  the  mighty 
diapason  of  the  spheres  with  his  pitiful  tuning-fork  and 


PAINTED  VEILS  283 

lo!  he  has  miserably  failed.  Woe,  woe,  I  say  to  souls 
unprepared — "  Ulick  interrupted. 

"Honestly,  Milt,  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,  but  you 
ought  to  charge  admission.  Hire  a  hall.  You  are  a  born 
missionary.  I  mean  it." 

"Don't  mock,  Ulick.  Reality  is  stranger  than  rhet 
oric.  You  are  at  the  crossroads.  Decide  at  once.  My 
college,  as  you  know,  is  up-country.  A  week's  retreat 
will  therefore  be  hygiene  for  body  as  well  as  soul.  And 
after  the  retreat  there  is  to  be  a  Novena  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  Be  with  us,  dear  brother!  You  will  bathe  in 
the  lustral  waters  and  become  cleansed.  Born  anew 
everything  will  work  out  for  the  best.  Your  bohemian 
life  is  your  undoing.  You  look  like  a  man  with  spinal 
trouble.  Pardon  me,  is  it  so!"  Ulick  shook  his  head 
but  his  knees  shook  too.  Marry  Mona!  There  it  is 
at  last!  Not  a  hint  but  a  veiled  command.  Of  course, 
he  would  marry  the  girl.  Marriage  was  the  only  way 
for  an  honourable  man. 

"I've  nothing  seriously  the  matter  with  me,  Milt,  I've 
inherited  bad  blood  from  my  father.  Mona  needn't 
fear.  I  shan't  taint  her.  But  I'm  in  no  physical  or 
mental  condition  to  marry  at  present.  Give  me  time 
to  recuperate  my  forces.  I've  been  going  it  hard  for 
the  past  years.  Paris  couldn't  be  worse  than  New 
York."  Milt  was  gloomy. 

"Keep  away  from  Dora,  and  that  other  enchantress, 
Istar.  The  pair  of  them  would  kill  Casanova,"  Milt 
sullenly  replied. 


284  PAINTED  VEILS 

"I've  not  seen  them  since  the  night  they  threw 
me  out  at  Dora's."  Milt  was  curious.  Ulick  told  the 
story;  how  Easter  contrived  to  get  into  Dora's  apart 
ment.  She  went  boldly  to  the  top  floor,  rang  the  bell 
of  Dora's  neighbor,  also  a  pretty  lady,  and  told  a  fib. 
Could  she  be  permitted  to  go  to  Dora's  room  by  way  of 
the  balcony?  The  little  woman  paled  at  the  proposi 
tion.  Simple  madness.  There  was  only  a  narrow  ledge, 
a  few  inches  wide,  and  balancing  herself  on  the  window- 
sill,  Easter  would  have  to  make  a  swift  leap  to  the  bal 
cony  and  then  she  would  be  compelled  to  pull  herself 
over  the  stone  balcony,  and  it  was  broad.  Other 
wise,  no  coming  back,  she  would  drop  to  the  sidewalk 
and  be  smashed  to  a  pulp  if  she  turned  her  body. 
"By  God!"  exclaimed  Ulick,  "she  did  it.  Easter  took  the 
risks.  She  has  muscles  like  steel.  But  what  agility, 
what  fearlessness!"  Milt  agreed  with  him. 

"God  is  preserving  her  for  something  wonderful." 

"The  devil,  you  mean." 

"God,  I  said.  That  woman — oh!  how  shamelessly 
she  lives — interests  me.  I  should  like  to  be  the  one  to 
lead  her  to  salvation." 

"Take  care,  Milt!  Pride  goeth  before  a  fall.  Your 
pride  is  the  most  dangerous  brand — spiritual  pride. 
Remember  A  Kempis:  'No  man  commandeth  safely 
but  he  that  hath  learned  to  obey.'" 

"A  beautiful  thought;  the  devil  knows  good  quota 
tions.  I'm  glad  you  remember  your  Imitation.  Throw 


PAINTED  VEILS  285 

Petronius  to  the  dogs.  But  I  am  talking  so  much  that 
you  have  forgotten  Mona  and  our  engagement." 

"The  only  subjects  that  interest  me  are  sex,  art,  and 
religion." 

"Huysmans  said  that  better,  Ulick.  I'll  ring  up  Mona. 
She's  a  good  girl  and  will  make  you  a  good  wife,  and 
give  me  a  brother  I  love  very  much."  .  .  . 

They  weren't  too  late  for  their  appointment.  Mona 
met  them  at  the  car  and  they  rode  across  the  park  to 
Easter's  apartment.  It  was  an  engagement  made  that 
afternoon  at  the  Vienna  Cafe.  Mona  went  to  see  Easter 
at  intervals,  but,  as  she  had  promised,  Milt  was  to  be  of 
the  party.  It  was  in  the  fumoir  Easter  greeted  them. 
She  jestingly  called  her  bed-room  her  "aimoir."  Sprawl 
ing  on  luxurious  divans  were  three  or  four  girls,  Allie 
Wentworth  among  the  rest.  A  monstrously  fat  woman 
with  a  face  that  recalled  the  evil  eyes  and  parrot-beak 
of  an  octopus,  sat  enthroned,  and  in  her  puffy  lips  a 
long  black  cigar.  Introductions.  "We  call  her  Anac- 
toria,"  cried  Allie,  pointing  at  the  large  lady.  "Isn't 
she  a  queen?"  "Allie,"  said  the  other  in  a  thick  voice, 
"Allie,  you  ought  to  be  spanked."  "Spanking  is  too 
good  for  her,"  interrupted  Easter.  "Spanking  is  too 
expensive  nowadays,"  pertly  added  the  girl,  who  wore 
her  hair  like  a  pianist.  "Spanking,"  remarked  the  fat 
creature,  "is  for  virtuosi  only."  A  roar  followed  this 
delightful  allusion.  "Anactoria  has  cell-hunger  today," 
smirked  Allie.  "Out  you  go  if  you  say  another  word. 
Remember  company,"  Easter  threatened.  "Oh,  as  for 


286  PAINTED  VEILS 

that,  a  young  man  can't  scare  me  even  if  he  does  button 
his  collar  behind."  Allie  distinctly  pouted.  "Don't 
mind  her,  Mel,"  interposed  Mona.  "There  you  go  with 
you  and  Mel!  Please  do  please  tell  me  what  Mel 
stands  for  Mr.  Milton — or  should  I  say,  Father  Mil 
ton?"  Easter  sat  near  Milt  and  poured  into  his  eyes 
all  the  magnetism  of  her  own. 

"Not  Father  Milton,  Miss  Easter,"  he  remonstrated, 
"not  yet.  I  shan't  be  ordained  for  several  years.  Mel 
is  only  a  short  version  of  my  long  and  not  pretty-sound 
ing  baptismal  name.  My  mother  must  have  been  in  a 
religious  mood  when  she  gave  it  to  me.  I  am  not  worthy 
to  bear  it."  Easter  pleaded.  He  did  not  weaken,  and 
she  was  secretly  infuriated.  She  became  a  human 
dynamo.  "I'll  sing  some  Schubert  and  Schumann  for 
you,"  she  whispered  to  him,  "better  still,  come  to  see  me 
tomorrow  and  I'll  sing  Wagner  for  you — alone.  I 
want  to  have  a  confidential  talk  about  Ulick.  He  looks 
awful.  He  should  consult  a  specialist."  Her  smile  was 
grim.  She  was  aware  of  Milt's  plan  to  marry  off  Mona; 
the  girl  had  informed  her.  Milt  grew  uneasy.  He  knew 
he  was  blushing.  His  throat  was  dry,  his  lips  drier. 
The  company  rallied  him.  Ulick  declared  that  he  was 
flirting,  but  Allie  raged.  Her  jealousy  was  so  childish 
that  Anactoria  reproved  her.  "You  can't  blame  Istar 
if  the  men  adore  her.  I  shouldn't  trust  what's-his-narne 
with  the  collar  buttoned  behind  over  there  a  moment." 
With  this  decision  she  emitted  a  cloud  of  smoke  and 
closed  her  little  porcine  eyes. 


PAINTED  VEILS  287 

Easter  sang  Schubert's  Almighty,  and  ended  with 
Erlking.  She  sang  gloriously.  Milt  absorbed  the 
luscious  tones  as  if  they  were  living  corpuscles.  His 
passion  for  music  had  been  rebuked  more  than  once 
at  the  college.  Canalized  the  tone-art  could  be  made 
the  vehicle  ad  majoram  Dei  gloriam;  but  in  the  theatre, 
it  was  only  another  snare  of  Satan,  a  specious,  sensual 
snare.  They  drank  tea.  The  conversation  became 
general.  As  they  went  away  Easter  made  a  movement 
with  her  lips  which  Milt  read:  Tomorrow!  He  bowed. 
In  the  car  Mona  confessed  boredom.  Ulick  affirmed 
her  judgment.  An  afternoon  wasted.  And  what  a 
queer  gang  Easter  has  around  her,  added  Ulick.  But 
Milt  repeated  the  Pater  Noster,  and  prayed:  et  ne  nos 
inducas  in  tentationem!  Openly  he  nicknamed  Easter 
— Dame  Lucifer. 

XI 

A  day  later  Ulick  called  on  Easter.  He  felt  depressed. 
His  symptoms  had  become  alarming.  Easter  was 
quite  right — he  should  have  long  ago  consulted 
a  nerve-specialist.  His  left  arm  was  continually 
numb  and  he  dragged  his  left  leg  after  him  like  a  man 
who  had  suffered  from  a  stroke;  a  mild  stroke  perhaps, 
yet  something  that  threatened  worse.  He  determined 
to  see  a  doctor  the  next  day.  At  the  door  he  was  greeted 
by  Easter's  Bavarian  maid,  who  liked  him  because  he 
could  speak  her  own  dialect.  No,  Madame  went  out 
for  a  call.  She  would  soon  return.  His  friend  was  in 


288  PAINTED  VEILS 

the  fumoir — you  know,  the  geistlicher  Herr — the  maid 
giggled — "What  reverend  sir?"  he  sharply  asked.  "Oh 
you  know.  Fraiilein  Mona's  brother.  He  isn't  well. 
I  think  he  drinks  an  awful  lot — "  but  Ulick  didn't 
wait  to  hear  the  rest.  He  hurried  to  the  smoking-room 
where  he  found  Milt  with  a  decanter  of  cognac  before 
him,  and  uncomfortably  drunk.  Ulick  was  surprised 
and  shocked. 

"Milt!  you  here!  What  in  the  hell  are  you  up  to?" 
Milt  didn't  reply.  His  hair  was  tumbled,  his  eyes 
staring,  his  linen  doubtful — all  the  stigmata  of  a  man 
on  a  protracted  spree.  He  mumbled  unintelligible 
words  and  with  a  shaky  hand  pointed  to  the  decanter. 
A  mortal  weakness  seized  Ulick.  He  sank  on  a  divan 
and  endeavoured  to  shut  out  the  repugnant  picture. 
Milt!  His  critic,  Milt  of  the  lofty  ideals,  a  besotted 
animal  in  the  House  of  the  Harlot!  It  was  that  devil- 
woman  who  had  dragged  him  down.  Dame  Lucifer. 
Yet  he  hadn't  the  heart  to  reproach  the  unfortunate 
young  man  who  felt  his  disgrace  and  began  to  whimper. 

"Spiritual  pride,  Ulick,  goeth  before  a  ...  rotten 
fall !  What  have  I  done !  I've  lost  my  purity,  my  man 
hood  .  .  .  it  is  my  own  doing — I,  who  would  become 
one  of  God's  anointed — I,  Milton,  of  the  priestly  order 
of  Melchizedek — that's  my  real  name.  Your  Elsa- 
Istar  coaxed  the  secret  from  me,  first,  making  me  drunk, 
as  did  Dalila,  Samson,  making  me  eat  the  insane  root. 
Painted  veils! — Oh!  Jewel,  Jewel,  she  is  irresistible — 
and  I  didn't  think  you  worthy  of  my  poor  little  sister — 


PAINTED  VEILS  289 

you  ruined  her,  you  evil  one — but  I  forgive — who  am  I 
to  judge  another? — miserable  sinner.  .  ."  He  drank. 
Ulick  was  too  stunned  to  prevent  him.  Easter's  handi 
work!  He  would  wait  for  her  and  give  her  a  tongue- 
lashing,  then  get  Milt  away,  somehow,  somewhere 
.  .  .only  to  gratify  a  caprice  she  had  ruined  the 
career  of  a  weak  man  .  .  .  she  was  a  real  vampire 
.  .  .  Milton  pointed  to  the  brandy  and  fell  back 
dead-drunk.  An  irresistible  impulse  prompted  Ulick. 
He  took  Milt's  half  empty  glass  and  swallowed  the 
cognac.  Immediately  his  brain  cleared.  He  felt  the 
fiery  liquid  to  his  toe- tips.  He  stood  up  and  with  a 
formidable  oath  kicked  over  the  tabouret,  decanter 
and  all.  Milt  did  not  stir.  The  little  maid  rushed  in 
with  a  volley  of  "Mein  Gotts!"  "Tell  your  mistress  I'll 
come  back  for  this  gentleman.  I'll  get  a  hansom."  "I 
think  I  hear  her  now,"  exclaimed  the  frightened  girl. 
Easter  entered.  She  was  in  coal-black  silk,  glittering 
with  steel  beads.  She  seemed  to  him  like  Astrafiam- 
mente  the  Queen  of  the  Night,  or  another  Astaroth, 
the  Istar,  who  went  down  into  hell  and  came  back 
unsinged,  only  more  evil.  She  frigidly  regarded  him. 
He  controlled  his  hysterical  desire  to  drag  her  to  her 
knees  and  shout:  Ecce  homo!  Woman  behold  your 
work!  But  the  gesture  seemed  melodramatic.  He 
paused. 

"Well?"  she  asked,  "what  are  you  doing  here  Jewel?" 
His  tongue  was  tied.     He  trembled  in  every  limb. 


290  PAINTED  VEILS 

He  couldn't  withstand  the  potency  of  her  eyes.  He 
ejaculated: 

"Poor  Milt!"    She  smiled. 

"That  imbecile  with  his  purity  talk;  going  around 
with  a  chastity  chip  on  his  shoulder  like  a  challenge!" 
Ulick  revolted. 

"You  are  a  beast,  Easter.  You  called  me  a  beast 
that  day  at  Zaneburg:  now  it  is  you  who  are  the  beast." 
She  steadily  gazed  at  him. 

"And  ever  since  that  day  at  Zaneburg,  you  have  run 
after  this  beast  as  if  you  owned  her.  But  you  didn't — 
you  never  did,  do  you  hear!  You  never  had  me." 
Her  defiant  speech  was  like  the  fortissimo  from  a  full 
orchestra.  The  noise  in  his  ears  deafened  him.  He 
stammered : 

"Never  had  you — but — but  I  did.  I  held  you  to 
me.  .  .  ." 

"You  held  the  other  woman,  Roarin'  Nell — it's  the 
last  kiss  that  counts." 

"You  lie!" 

"I  don't  lie.    I've  never  been  anything  to  you." 

"Who  was  it  then?"    She  answered  in  level  tones : 

"Brother  Rainbow,  of  course.  In  the  darkness  we  all 
got  mixed-up.  And,  of  course,  I  assented — physio 
logically." 

"That  black  monster  .  .  .  God!"  He  struggled 
with  his  emotions.  Easter  stood,  waiting,  her  sombre 
beauty  never  before  so  disquieting.  Then  he  got  out 
of  the  accursed  house,  he  didn't  know  how.  He  walked 


PAINTED  VEILS  291 

like  a  somnambulist  to  Ninth  Avenue  and  entered  the 
first  saloon  he  encountered.  He  took  a  dose  of  whisky 
that  brought  an  astonished  expression  to  the  red  face 
of  the  bartender. 

"Say  mister,  that's  a  hooker  you  took."  He  tried  to 
forget  the  hideous,  grotesque  Brother  Rainbow. 

"It's  my  first  drink  of — whisky." 

"And  it  won't  be  your  last,"  said  the  man  with  a 
knowing  grin  .     .     .  Ulick  immediately  ordered  an 
other  and  gulped  it  down.    Nell !  Ugh !  She ! 
He  heard   the   cloud-harps   sounding   as   he   faltered 
along.     .     . 

.  .  .  Late  that  night  Dora  was  awakened  by  a 
persistent  buzzing.  She  ran  to  the  door  and  found 
Ulick  helplessly  leaning  against  the  bell.  "What  you 
my  baby  Jewel  drunk?  What  a  pink- tea  party.  Come 
in  and  go  to  bed  on  the  couch.  You'll  be  O.K.  in  the 
morning.  What  for  did  you  go  and  booze  like  Paul  or 
any  other  old  drunk!  You  must  feel  awful  bad  slopping 
down  red-eye  at  that.  I'm  glad  you  came  home  to 
your  mamma — what's  the  matter?"  Ulick  moaned. 
"My  side — it  feels  paralyzed — " 

"It's  only  rum.  Don't  worry.  WThat  are  you  crying 
about?"  Tears  streamed  down  his  tortured  features. 
"I'm  crying — I'm  crying — because  I'm  so  glad  to  be 
home  again"  ...  he  stuttered.  "What  a  liar!" 
laughed  Dora,  and  not  attempting  to  undress  him, 
she  covered  him  with  a  shawl  and  went  to  her  bed, 
where  she  slept  the  untroubled  sleep  of  the  wicked. 


292  PAINTED  VEILS 

XII 

.  .  .  "You  see,  it's  this  way,"  explained  Alfred 
years  afterwards  to  some  of  the  newspaper  boys  around 
a  table  at  Liichow's.  "Poor  Ulick  never  had  the 
staying  power.  Brilliant?  Yes — after  a  fashion.  His 
mind  was  a  crazy-quilt.  Mince  pie  and  Chopin.  Can 
you  beat  it?  He  had  the  cosmopolitan  bug,  but  he 
soon  found  out  that  the  North  American  climate 
withered  the  Flowers  of  Evil  of  his  Baudelaire  and  all 
the  other  decadent  ideas  and  poetry  he  brought  over 
with  him.  Poisonous  honey  from  France — what? 
Our  native  air  is  too  tonic  for  such  stuff.  His  Fleurs 
du  Mai  wilted.  So  did  he.  He  hadn't  the  guts  to  last. 
After  his  paralytic  stroke  at  Dora's  he  was  sent  back 
to  Paris,  but  he  didn't  live  many  years.  He  and  his 
brother  Oswald  died  within  a  few  months  of  each 
other.  Old  man  Invern  didn't  only  bequeath  them 
money — he  probably  gave  them  something  worse. 
You  know.  Our  old  enemy,  Spirochaeta  Pallida,  I 
suspect.  Otherwise,  why  did  Ulick  crumble  after  one 
real  debauch?  Their  money — oh,  it  reverted  to  the 
Bartletts,  cousins  of  the  boys.  Was  he  engaged  to 
Mona  Milton?  That's  news.  I  never  heard  of  it  and 
I  was  pretty  thick  with  her  family.  You  know  she 
married  Paul  Godard,  and  it  turned  out  a  happy  match 
— at  least  for  her.  She  has  a  houseful  of  children.  A 
blooming  matron.  But  self-righteous  now;  turns  up 
her  nose  at  'fallen  women.'  I  visit  there  every  now 


PAINTED  VEILS  293 

and  then.  Paul  isn't  a  bad  sort.  He  used  to  be  a 
loose  fish,  and  now  he  wears  slippers  and  goes  to  bed 
early.  Everything  passes — even  regret.  Strange! 
Ulick  never  drank — except  that  time — or  smoked — 
and  he's  gone.  Mona  doesn't  mention  his  name.  Her 
brother!  He  got  into  a  woman  scrape  here — never 
mind  the  lady's  name — scandale  oblige!  He  was 
fished  out  of  the  gutter  and  sent  away  to  repent  in 
some  monastery  out  West.  After  he  became  a  priest 
he  was  exported  as  a  missionary  to  China.  He  was  a 
born  preacher.  I  think  he  drove  Ulick  to  drink  with 
his  preaching — that's  what  Istar  says.  Istar?  Thank 
you,  she's  very  well.  She's  composed  of  harps,  anvils 
and  granite.  The  steely  limit!  A  heartless,  ungrateful 
creature.  Fly-blown  caviar.  .  .  Yes,  a  wonderful 
artiste.  But  that  doesn't  always  mean  a  civilised 
human.  Yet,  singers,  actors,  artists  are  not  a  whit 
worse  as  to  morals  than  your  business  men,  politicians, 
your  shoemakers  or  your  pious  folk.  The  artists  get 
found  out  quicker — that's  all.  I  see  her  daily — I've 
known  her  nearly  twenty  years — and  she  grows  wicked 
er  every  year.  She  is  the  great  singing  harlot  of  modern 
Babylon,  a  vocal  Scarlet  Woman.  I'm  sick  of  her. 
I've  told  her  so.  She  expects  me  to  be  her  fetch-and- 
carry.  Not  for  thirty  cents,  d'ye  hear?  Why,  boys, 
she's  too  mean  to  play  the  horses — and  that's  a  bad 
sign.  I'm  tired,  I'm  going  home.  You  can  scandalise 
when  my  back  is  turned.  But  remember  one  thing — 
I'll  live  to  write  Easter's  obituary  in  the  "Clarion" 


294  PAINTED  VEILS 

perhaps  write  the  epitaph  on  her  headstone.  As  for 
music,  I'm  weary  of  it — opera  in  particular.  When 
it  isn't  silly  fashion,  then  people  go  for  the  sensual 
music.  Sex  and  music,  a  rotten  mixture." 

He  faded  into  the  next  room,  where  the  band  was 
playing,  vertigionously. 

"I'll  bet  that  he  will  live  to  write  Istar's  obituary. 
Alfred  must  be  fifty,  but  he's  a  wiry  old  rum-hound," 
remarked  some  one.  "He's  a  parasite  on  Istar.  He 
does  all  her  dirty  jobs.  She  hates  him  as  much  as  he 
hates  her.  They  hate  each  other  so  much  that  I 
wonder  they  aren't  man  and  wife."  It  was  the  much- 
married  Bell  who  spoke.  His  companions  assented. 
As  for  poor  forgotten  Ulick — Oh!  well,  any  young  man 
of  twenty  can  be  brilliant.  The  test  comes  when  you 
are  sixty.  It  must  have  been  a  queer  crowd — that 
sextet!  Their  reactions — or  should  I  say,  their  vaso- 
motor  reflexes? — weren't  precisely  admirable.  Dainty 
Dora,  fair,  fat,  forty,  was  the  squarest  of  the  lot. 
She  played  the  game.  Now  she's  a  fashionable 
modiste — a  Madame.  All  her  customers  are  men. 
But  Istar?  Ah!  Istar  panned  out  first-class.  She 
may  be  a  painted  veil,  as  Ulick  said,  but  the  paint 
is  beautiful,  and  the  veil  doesn't  hide  her  good  looks. 
To  Istar!  was  the  toast.  And  they  drank  the  health 
of  the  greatest  Isolde  since  Lilli  Lehmann.  Esther 
Brandes,  the  unvanquished.  Istar,  the  Great  Singing 
Whore  of  Modern  Babylon. 


THE  SEVENTH  GATE 

At  the  seventh  gate,  the  warden  stripped  her;   he  took 
off  the  last  veil  that  covers  her  body  .     .     . 


And  because  Istar  had  abhorred  the  Seven  Deadly 
Virtues,  and  renounced  them  at  the  Last  Gate  in 
favour  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Arts,  the  Warden  of  Life 
Eternal  bestowed  upon  her  the  immeasurable  boon 
of  the  Seven  Capital  Sins,  which  are:  Pride,  Covetous- 
ness,  Lust,  Anger,  Gluttony,  Envy,  Sloth.  .  . 
Added  to  these  are  the  Eighth  Deadly  Sin,  which 
is  Perfume;  the  Sin  Against  the  Holy  Ghost;  the 
sweet  sin  of  Sappho;  and  the  Supreme  Sin,  which  is 
the  denial  of  the  Devil  .  .  .  And  Istar,  Daughter 
of  Sin,  was  happy  and  her  days  were  long  in  the  land, 
and  she  passed  away  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  .  .  . 
Blessed  are  the  pure  of  heart;  for  they  shall  see  God 
! 

(Alfred  Stone's  epitaph  for  Easter) 


II 

Thus  lived  and  died  Ulick  Invern  in  the  companion 
ship  of  his  most  intimate  mentors  throughout  the  tragi 
comedy  of  his  existence.  Two  books  had  imaged  his 
reverse  aspirations:  Petronius,  his  thirst  for  an  Abso 
lute  in  evil;  Thomas  a  Kempis,  his  God-intoxicated 
craving  for  the  Infinite.  Euthanasia  came  to  him 
wearing  an  ambiguous  smile.  Yet,  who  shall  dare 
say  that  he  had  lived  in  vain?  On  the  vast  uncharted 
lamp  of  mysticism  extremes  may  meet,  even  mingle.  .  . 
Credo  quia  impossible  est.  .  . 

FINIS 

*     *     * 

New  York 
July  9— August  S5,  1919 


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